Til All These Things Be Done
by LookingBeyondTheEmbers
Summary: D'Artagnan and Constance enjoy a day off together outside of Paris. When tragedy strikes, d'Artagnan is set on a path of revenge that threatens to destroy him in the process. His brothers are by his side, as always, but there are some things impossible to walk away from, and some love too strong to abandon . Spoilers for season 1. Lots of d'Artagnan whump and hurt/comfort. Rated T.
1. Cliff Ambush

**_A/N:_** Hello, everyone! So before I begin, I'd like to apologize profusely to anyone here who might also be waiting for an update on Among Poets and Madmen. All I can say is that I had a definite idea starting it, and kind of how it would end. Working through the middle part is much harder than I anticipated. But, I digress.

If you don't ship d'Artagnan with Constance, this story may not be the best for you. I mean that in the kindest way possible, because most of this story will be based around the actions of our favorite Gascon in regards to Constance. If that's not your thing, that's perfectly fine. Rated T for suggestive themes and slight swearing. I tried to keep it minimal, but it's still present. Mentions to events of season 1, so I guess they can be labeled as spoilers.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to The Musketeers. Alexandre Dumas was a literary genius, and the BBC network took it a step further for us. I don't own anything in this story except for the OC bad guy. He's mine :).

Happy holidays, everyone!

* * *

 _"The sea will never run dry, my dear_

 _Nor the rocks never melt with the sun._

 _But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love_

 _'Til all these things be done, my dear_

 _'Til all these things be done._

-English folk song.

* * *

Constance closed her eyes, feeling the cool sea breeze on her face. It lifted the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid and tickled the nape of her neck. It was a warm day, but the wind was surprisingly cold coming off the water. She kept her eyes closed, hearing his footsteps behind her. She smiled as his arms, strong and warm, encircled her tightly. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, and she felt his soft sigh of contentment on her hair.

"I told you you'd like it out here," d'Artagnan murmured playfully to her.

Constance smiled and pulled the arms around her tighter. "You were right. This is better than I ever could've imagined."

They were standing on the edge of a cliff in Calais, watching the waves crash over the rocks with careless abandon. The sun was just starting to slide into their view, signaling midday, and Constance found herself too entranced to look away. The cold sea foam and the granite cliff were in perfect harmony with each other. The icy spray could be felt from where they were standing, and the heavy crashing noise was all around them.

The landscape was somewhat harsh, but Constance could appreciate its stark beauty, which contrasted so sharply with the rolling green land she had grown up with, and later the bustling streets of Paris. Some clouds were gathering on the horizon, dark and forbidding. She thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder, but found she didn't mind. D'Artagnan's comforting arms were still around her, and the ocean kept its rhythmic time below them.

"I love you, Constance," he told her quietly.

She turned to face him, seeking his eyes. She found pure emotion shining from startling depths in his brown orbs: complete devotion, an all-consuming passion, and all-encompassing sincerity. She knew she could never doubt those words from her lover.

"I love you too, d'Artagnan," she said, saying it with all her heart and feeling the truth ring in the words.

He smiled at the heartfelt, simple words and gazed at her in undisguised adoration. She leaned forward impulsively and brought her mouth to his. His mouth was soft, but the passion was unmistakable. He leaned farther into the kiss. She felt his hands on her face. Soldier's hands, rough and worn but impossibly gentle, always gentle with her.

After what seemed like an eternity, he broke off the kiss, gazing earnestly into her face. He pulled her close, reveling in the warmth that came from her small, strong frame against his. She pressed her face to his chest, breathing him in and smelling the hay of the Garrison's barn, the oil for his musket, the clean linen he wore.

They were completely alone on the isolated cliff face, no one around for miles. They could finally touch and be held in the way they wanted, away from the prying eyes of Paris, the gossiping tongues of the Court and the disapproving looks of nearly everyone they met. D'Artagnan didn't even want to think about what Bonacieux would do if he ever discovered the musketeer had taken his wife to Calais to look at the sea.

It was a rare break in the musketeer's now-familiar routine of mission after mission. Treville had granted them all some leave time, and d'Artagnan had heard his land-lady talking with Aramis about how she had never seen the ocean. He had waited, until Bonacieux had left Paris for a fabric trading trip before he had asked Constance to go with him. After she had accepted, he invited the other musketeers. Athos had quickly agreed, stating that they would join them by the sea an hour or two after Constance and d'Artagnan got there because they had "musketeer business" to sort out.

Aramis had given him a suggestive eyebrow raise and Porthos had opened his mouth to tell him that they just wanted to give them some time alone when Athos had silenced Aramis with a murderous glare more threatening than any words could have been and a hard elbow to Porthos' side.

Now they could finally relax and just _be_. It still astonished d'Artagnan how quickly they had seemed to fit together, how comfortable and right it felt to be with her. As far as he was concerned, he was the luckiest man in all of Paris, and nothing could ever change how he felt about Constance. Not her husband, not the impending war, not being a musketeer and having to grapple with death on a regular basis.

She turned her eyes to the horizon, watching the time pass as the sun inched closer.

"Didn't they say they would meet us here?" she asked finally. "They should have been here by now."

"I know," d'Artagnan reassured her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. "We'll wait just a little while longer."

She didn't nod but knew that he understood. She was saying it from habit, not because she had any real desire to leave. The sea was even more majestic than she had imagined, and she wouldn't have traded this time with d'Artagnan for anything.

The two were turned toward the cliff's edge, the gentle roar of the sea below them blocking the noise of the bandits creeping in from the edge of the trees behind them. Neither of them noticed the five men as they got closer. D'Artagnan seemed to sense something behind him and turned, just as a sword pommel met his temple.

He didn't fall unconscious, but dropped to his knees as his world went a watery gray color. He was dimly aware of the blood trickling down the side of his face, and Constance was screaming from somewhere far away. He tried to remember what he was doing, and his gaze came up.

One of the men grabbed her arms from behind, effectively immobilizing her. She fought and screamed, but he was much stronger. Another bandit was reaching for the necklace she wore, ripping it away. D'Artagnan heard her cry of pain as the metal chain cut sharply into her neck before breaking, leaving a thin line of red.

That vibrant color snapped him into action and the musketeer staggered to his feet with difficulty. He managed to draw his sword and began dueling with the two men nearest him. He fought with all his might, but he could feel his strength ebbing away. One of the men swung at him quickly, and he barely brought his sword up to deflect it. The other struck out, slicing a long gash down his side. He gasped in pain and tried to turn. His half-hearted swing was easily deflected with a hard downward swipe.

D'Artagnan's sword fell from numb fingers, clattering on the rocky ground. One of the bandits-was it the fourth man?—kicked him hard in the back of the legs, sending him to his knees again. It was all he could do to stay kneeling, swaying as he tried to focus his blurring vision.

Constance was screaming for him, and he desperately tried to listen to what she was saying. He closed his eyes, and suddenly there was a hard grasp on his face. It yanked his chin up, and d'Artagnan's eyes flew open to look the leader of the bandits in the eye.

He was a young man, maybe a few years older than Athos, with dark hair and black eyes that shone with fierce intelligence. He had a confident look, but there was a deep cruelty in his eyes. A long scar ran from his cheekbone to his jawline. D'Artagnan realized that the hand clenched firmly around his chin was missing a finger.

"Give us your guns, your sword, your gold, her jewels and pins. You'll be free to go. Well, maybe your companion will stay with us," he added afterward, voice darkened by the suggestion. "She is rather beautiful."

"Get away from her!" D'Artagnan snarled and lunged for the man. There were hands around him immediately, pushing him down into the dirt. He struggled vainly against their weight.

The leader smirked and stood up, moving to where Constance was still being restrained by the man. He reached out and stroked her cheek with a gentle finger. She shrunk away from his grasp, skin crawling with revulsion.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed at him, trying to hide her fear. The leader grinned and made a gesture towards the man to pull her closer to the cliff's edge. They were now very close to the precipice, and the bigger man let go of her and stepped back.

The leader of the bandits reached forward and caught her arms in an iron grip quickly. He tried to pull her close to him, and she struggled and clawed ineffectually in his grasp.

D'Artagnan tried to get up, but one of the men punched him hard in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air.

Constance managed to get a hand free and raked her fingernails across his face, leaving four bloody gashes. He yelped in pain and pushed her away instinctively.

D'Artagnan watched in horror as she teetered towards the edge, seemingly frozen in time. She couldn't get her balance and her normally graceful limbs flailed uselessly as she tried to stop her own motion.

She looked at him then, face turned alabaster with fear and eyes full of shock. She met her lover's gaze one final time, and d'Artagnan could only watch helplessly as she fell. He saw her mouth open, as if to utter a final word or scream, but the wind snatched her voice away.

The bandits looked shocked, and d'Artagnan managed to shove them off and charge towards the cliff's edge. He stopped before going over, skidding against the rough rocks at the last possible second. Still, he was unable to do anything except stare as his love plummeted silently towards the cold, watery grave below.

He watched her fall for an eternity until the bright cream color of her dress hit the gray of the water and disappeared under the rush of a wave. He tried to jump after her, unthinkingly, but was caught by the big bandit that had restrained Constance. He fought in the brute's grip, needing to jump after her, needing to _save_ her.

The last thing he saw was the leader looking at him, blood dripping down his face from the gashes Constance had inflicted on him. Then a heavy blow landed against the side of his head and he slid bonelessly toward the rocky ground.

The lead bandit wiped his face, which immediately began dripping blood again. He opened his clenched fist and held Constance's necklace, stained red. They took d'Artagnan's sword and guns, and the small amount of gold he had been carrying.

In the end they left him lying where he had fallen, near the edge of the abyss. The keening wind in the rocks of the lonely cliffside were the only answer to the relentless pounding of the waves below.

* * *

 _ **A/N(2):**_ Okay, before I lose a bunch of you right off the bat, let me clear something up. No, I don't hate Constance. No, I don't want her dead. No, I don't like death threats in my PM box XD. She's not actually dead. I could never bring myself to kill her, simply because I enjoy her character too much. The thing is, I need d'Artagnan to _think_ she's dead, and this seemed like as good a way as any. All reviews are welcome, seriously! Loved it? Hated it? Not good enough to continue it? I appreciate any kind of feedback, because ultimately, I write for you guys :). Have a great holiday, and stay safe!

LookingBeyondTheEmbers


	2. Damage

**_A/N:_** Greetings! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday, and that they have plenty of leftovers to eat (that's always my favorite part). I won't usually update this quickly (in fact, it never really happens), but I have the first few chapters written already and I only need to look over them again.

Plenty of d'Artagnan whump and angst here, and more to come. Not really sure why I like torturing this poor guy, but it makes for fun to write, so...

All reviews are welcome, as always. I want to thank EnigmaTM, pallysd'Artagnan, and Uia for leaving reviews, as well as cindy123, pallysd'Artagnan, Bookbrook, PearlSword and Achchi for following the story. I have never gotten that much of a response on a first chapter before and seriously, it's amazing. You guys are awesome! I sincerely hope everyone enjoys the next chapter :)

Disclaimer: Never was, never will be mine. No money has exchanged hands. No names had to be changed to protect the innocent.

* * *

"Perhaps we should have given them more time," Aramis mused to himself with Porthos nodding in obvious agreement beside him. Athos didn't give any indication that he had heard and continued moving through the forest towards the cliff.

They were riding at an easy walk for the horses, not rushing or slowing down. The peace of the forest was broken only by the horses' breaths and the occasional call of the birds to each other. Athos closed his eyes for a moment, breathing the scent of the pines and the earthy forest floor below him. This was one of the few things that could quiet the unease in his soul, he had found. There were precious few moments like this in Paris, and even less as a King's musketeer.

"We did say we'd catch up to them eventually," Porthos said, trying to catch Athos' attention, hoping to stop for a few hours longer.

"We said we would join them on the cliffside a few hours after they arrived," the older musketeer stated evenly, not turning around.

"It has been two hours and almost another half since they should have been there. I'd say that was ample time. Besides, it will rain soon," he continued drily, not wanting to imply anything.

Aramis grinned. "I don't know if that's enough time for—"

"What's that?" Porthos said, dismounting from his horse and walking towards an object on the ground that had caught his eye.

Athos wheeled his horse around to face his friend, all jokes replaced by a solemn look.

Aramis jumped off his own horse to join Porthos on the ground, looking at the small object he held carefully in his large hand.

It was the small necklace belonging to Constance. The delicate metal workings of the edges were bent horribly out of shape and the chain was broken. With something akin to panic, he realized that it was stained red.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said suddenly, spurring his horse to a gallop. Aramis and Porthos immediately followed, thundering through the forest towards the cliff side.

* * *

Athos burst out of the forest's edge and moved into the clearer, open plane of the cliff. He spotted his friend's crumped body lying near the edge and jumped off his horse.

"D'Artagnan!" he exclaimed, skidding to a halt by his brother's side, not heeding the tumble of pebbles he sent over the edge. He dropped to his knees and turned d'Artagnan onto his back. Athos saw the blood staining the front of his tunic, and frantically pulled the shirt aside to ascertain the damage. The wound was ugly; a long, deep sword slash that stretched from the front of his ribcage to his hip. It was still sluggishly bleeding, and Athos turned pale.

" _Aramis_!" he bellowed, prompting the medic to run over, followed quickly by Porthos.

"Oh, my God," Porthos breathed, eyes sweeping over his friend's pale face and weak breathing.

Aramis was checking his head, noting the dried blood on his face. He winced when he saw the gash and felt around for any other injuries. He felt another lump on the other side of his head and probed at it carefully.

"D'Artagnan," Athos commanded, shaking his friend by the shoulder. "D'Artagnan, wake up." The Gascon remained unresponsive.

Aramis was already back at his saddle, pulling the various items they would need out of it. Porthos helped him carry it and was taking Athos' water canteen from his horse.

"I need to stitch his side. He's lost too much blood as it is," Aramis said, worry creeping through the forced calm he kept in his voice.

Athos wordlessly moved aside, making room for the medic to work.

Aramis pulled a needle from his pouch, and set to threading it. Athos pulled d'Artagnan's shirt open further to give the healer better access to the wound.

Aramis poured wine over the needle, took a quick swallow for himself, then handed the flask to Porthos.

He began stitching the wound. The bleeding looked like it had all but stopped by this point, but d'Artagnan's coloring and raspy breath indicated to the anxious medic that it wasn't necessarily a good thing. Athos' eyes didn't leave his friend's face, watching every intake of breath and feeling the heartbeat underneath his fingertips. It was weak and thready, but still present.

Aramis went on stitching the skin together, tying knots off as he went. D'Artagnan didn't once stir. Finally, the handsome musketeer tied off the last stitch—fifty four in all—and rocked back on his heels to look at his patient.

D'Artagnan's face was a grayish color, and his breath came in weak rasps. Aramis frowned, and Athos looked at him, brow furrowed in deep concern.

"His head needs to be stitched as well," Porthos said, breaking the silence and watching the Gascon closely.

Aramis busied himself with preparing the thread and needle for another round.

Athos watched his young friend, a frown creasing his forehead. To find d'Artagnan in this state was worrisome enough, but to not know where Constance was… The unconscious man was lying so close to the cliff's edge, and Constance was nowhere to be seen.

Athos immediately shut down that train of thought, although the idea remained in his mind, gaping horribly through the edges in his awareness. He forcefully snapped his attention back to the musketeer and silently vowed to help his friend find the men responsible for this depravity.

Suddenly, something seemed wrong to Athos. Watching his friend's gray face, he waited for the next breath to come. With something akin to panic, he realized it didn't. D'Artagnan lay still and quiet.

"D'Artagnan!" he yelled, shaking the man roughly to no avail. "He's not breathing!" he said to the medic in a panic. Aramis felt his stomach curl in dread.

"D'Artagnan, breathe!" Porthos shouted, joining Athos by his side.

Aramis reached out and slapped d'Artagnan—hard—across the face.

His eyes flew open as he took a shuddering gasp of breath. His back arched up off the ground in pain and his eyes stared at nothing as he lay panting.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?" Athos said, peering down at his friend's face.

The young man's eyes were blank and glassy. He panted harshly trying to catch his breath.

"D'Artagnan? Are you with us?" Aramis asked, worried about the damage the head injury had probably done.

"Hmm?" The Gascon managed to slur, eyes rolling painfully in his aching skull. He closed his eyes and willed the ground to stop spinning underneath him.

"Open your eyes," Athos commanded.

It took a good thirty seconds for d'Artagnan's eyelids to comply with the order, but they finally slid open to reveal a blurry world which slowly came into focus.

"Thank God," Aramis murmured, taking a moment to kiss the golden cross he wore around his neck before grabbing the flask of wine.

D'Artagnan tried to move and instantly felt a sear of fiery pain along his side and all through his head.

"Don't move," Porthos told him in a low voice. "'mis will have you patched up in a few minutes. He stitched your side already," he added helpfully, when the young soldier raised a shaking hand gingerly to his damaged torso.

D'Artagnan's head slowly cleared.

"What happened?" he slurred, trying to focus on Athos, who was watching him with a look between relief and concern.

"We were hoping you could tell us," he replied. "We came to meet with you and Constance here—"

That was as far as the seasoned musketeer could go before d'Artagnan sprang up. The movement was so sudden that he managed to dodge the startled arms of his friends.

He got to his feet and moved quickly, already swaying dangerously to one side and staggering. Amid the shocked stares of his friends, d'Artagnan lurched towards the cliff's edge and didn't slow in the slightest.

Athos had a split second to react and guessed his friend's intentions. With a speed borne of sheer terror, he bolted after the Gascon and wrapped his arms fiercely around him, hugging him to his chest.

He could feel d'Artagnan's rapid heartbeat through his thin shirt and tried to wrestle him away from the precipice.

D'Artagnan struggled with everything he had, heedless of the pain in his side that was screaming in agony with every scrape against the rough fabric of Athos' doublet and the pounding of his head.

"D'Artagnan, stop!" Athos yelled, close to his ear, trying to make him listen. "Don't be a fool!"

"You don't understand, Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled back, tears now threatening to fall in his eyes. "She fell! I have to go after her!"

"You can't help her now," Athos told him, voice loud but gentle as possible under the circumstances. Every instinct was screaming at him to get his friend away from the abyss. "You'll be killed too," he said, sorrow pulling the sides of his mouth down in deep lines of familiar grief.

"I don't care!" the grief-stricken young man cried and launched himself one last time at the cliff.

Athos dug his heels in, and managed to half drag the Gascon away, still hugging him close. "I do," he said quietly into d'Artagnan's ear.

The young man gave a heart-wrenching sob and stared over Athos' shoulder at the overhang. Tears were flowing freely down his face, and his shoulders shook violently with paroxysms of sorrow.

"She was everything, Athos," he sobbed aloud, burying himself in his friend's grip. "She was _everything_."

Athos' jaw clenched painfully and he had to blink back tears of his own summoned by the devastation in his friend's voice.

Athos shifted his grip, and Porthos came to d'Artagnan's right, with Aramis joining them on the left. Together, they carefully maneuvered the man to a sitting position a safe distance away.

All the fight went out of d'Artagnan. He allowed himself to be placed carefully on the ground, and didn't move when Aramis, struggling to compose himself, poured wine over the wound.

Porthos pressed his lips together in a trembling white line, overcome with emotion. He kept a hand on the wounded man's shoulder, not liking the far away gaze or the minute trembling of his thin frame.

D'Artagnan made no noise of protest or movement from the cleaning that Aramis gave to his wounds.

He didn't flinch when the needle curved deftly through his skin, repairing the external damage.

He didn't move when he wine was poured over the stinging, raw wound.

He didn't stir when bandages were wrapped carefully around his newly-stitched midsection.

He didn't speak when Athos moved in front of him, a strong hand gripping his shoulder.

The physical pain was taxing, trying to take his attention away from the internal anguish he could feel at the edges of his consciousness. His side was raw and fiery, making his breathing ragged and his heart pounded so hard his vision pulsed with black spots every time it beat. His head sang with pain.

D'Artagnan realized abstractedly that he felt strange, that it was too easy to let go of these sensations. He found that the physical misery could be ignored just by simply _withdrawing_ , simply shifting away.

His focus turned inwards, and what he found took his breath away once again. The pain he was feeling physically was nothing compared to the agony in his mind. He tried to find the words to express the gaping void of loss and torment in his hollow chest.

Constance was dead. He couldn't make himself care about anything else, couldn't make himself answer the increasingly worried calls of Athos, couldn't stop the solitary tear running down his otherwise blank face.

Memories flashed before his eyes, like the flickering of a candle's flame.

 _Her beautiful face contorted with fear and meeting her lover's eyes in a mute, pleading farewell._

 _Her expression of delight when he surprised her with the necklace that had soon become her most treasured possession._

 _She hadn't even been able to scream. He hadn't been able to do anything except stare as his love plunged to her doom with one hand outstretched, as if he could reach out and save her._

 _Her quick look of love that was just underneath the surface of every expression, every gesture she made._

 _The soft rustle of her crinoline skirts against the wooden floor, and the curve of her smile as she looked at him from the other side of the table._

* * *

 _In the end, it hadn't mattered how many promises they made or how many vows he had taken, promising to protect her._

 _When she fell, she was alone._

* * *

Was it the pain in his mind that he had felt when Constance had gone over the edge, or was he screaming aloud? It was too loud inside his head with the pain repeating over and over in a trapped loop, and he couldn't hear anything anyway. He closed his eyes and screamed, succumbing to the anguish.

The screams, each more terrible than the last, set Athos' teeth on edge and made a chill run up his spine.

"Athos, talk to him!" Porthos exclaimed amid d'Artagnan's cries.

"D'Artagnan, stop!" Athos yelled, hoping to snap his friend out of it.

"It's too late; he can't hear you!" Aramis shouted over the noise.

"Just knock him out, for God's sake!" Porthos shouted, the desperation and fear showing in his eyes.

Athos cocked back a fist and landed it squarely on the Gascon's jaw, catching him when he slumped backwards. The cries ceased immediately, and the ensuing silence was somehow worse than the screams had been.

"Oh, hell," Porthos said miserably, trying to control the outpouring of emotion he felt.

Aramis took a deep breath, trying to collect his scattered thoughts and reorganize his feelings.

Athos stood up and staggered a few step away, looking out over the ocean towards the horizon. Aramis stayed by the prone figure of their friend.

"Constance?" Porthos asked unhappily, knowing in his heart what was true. Aramis looked down at the broken necklace dangling from his pocket, then to the cliff's edge.

Athos had his eyes closed to the dying sun set. A tear fell from his downcast face into the swirling, restless waves below.

* * *

After an interminable period of time had passed, they pulled themselves together. D'Artagnan needed rest, and to be properly looked after. Porthos didn't remember much of the ride back to Paris, just knew that it was quiet and raining. D'Artagnan rode double with Athos, remaining unconscious the entire way. Aramis rode next to his large friend, immersed in his own sorrowful thoughts.

When they arrived, Porthos picked the drenched d'Artagnan up bridal-style and carried him up the steps to Athos' apartments. Athos went to tell Treville what had happened, while Aramis fetched medical supplies and laid them out carefully in case of emergency later.

Athos joined them shortly afterwards. A few words were exchanged without meaning, and silence reigned over the room again. The musketeers settled themselves in the room, seeming restless despite their lack of motion. They were all wearied from the day's events, and they each gazed at d'Artagnan occasionally, who slept on.

Eventually, they all dropped silently off to sleep. Athos fell into a light, restless slumber leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Hours passed. Shortly after the church bells had struck half an hour after three in the morning, d'Artagnan awoke. He sat up and crept noiselessly around his sleeping companions. He went to the balcony and looked up at the sky. His head ached, but he pushed away the feeling, until it mattered as much as sleep did to him in that moment. A single thought circled in his mind. It was faint at first, but grew in clarity and resolve as the night went on.

He waited patiently for the vow to solidify itself in his mind, knowing he was helpless to resist, the way a pebble was against a landslide. The slow passage of time was marked by the turns of the cold stars that unblinkingly kept watch on the sleeping streets of Paris.


	3. Plans

_**A/N:**_ As promised, here's the next chapter. Enjoy! Not a lot of action here, but the next one will pick up. Thank you so much, to everyone who took the time to review and those who hit follow/favorite. I try to respond to all reviews, but since a few are from guests, thanks go out to Uia and Slovakia girl for their words of encouragement. Special thanks go to GingietheSnap, for the wonderful review and honest feedback.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All mistakes are my own, I don't have a Beta (that'd be cool, though). As always, any and all reviews are welcome.

Namaste.

* * *

Athos woke up with a start, muscles sore as he groggily tried to remember what he was doing. He was still sitting in a chair near the empty bed, where he had fallen asleep. He realized that Aramis was slumped in a similar position opposite him in a chair, and Porthos snored oblivious on the floor. His eyes swept over his brothers fondly, then he frowned as he realized their youngest member was missing.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos exclaimed, scrambling up from his place, ignoring the pull of his stiff muscles. He looked around almost frantically, then caught sight of the Gascon standing on the balcony facing the quiet grounds of the garrison.

Athos' cry had woken Aramis, who was startled onto the floor. Unfortunately, he landed on Porthos who gave a pained grunt and shoved the handsome musketeer off himself before realizing what he was doing. Aramis landed with a painful yelp next to his friend, who looked at him with wide eyes. They both shrugged at each other, then looked towards where Athos was nearing their friend.

Athos warily approached d'Artagnan, not knowing how he would react. After what happened last night, he steeled himself for the reaction.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly, stepping close to look the young man in the face.

He looked terrible in the gray morning light. Dark smudges were present under his eyes, accentuated by his pale face. Everything in his face seemed weary, except for his eyes, which were strangely backlit with a feverish fire that Athos immediately distrusted.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said listlessly. His eyes still gazed over the garrison with intense fervor, as if watching something of great importance.

"How did I get here?" he asked, after a few moments of silence, turning to stare at his friends.

"We brought you back," Aramis said, joining his friends in the chilly morning air. "I should take a look at your side, and you really need to eat and drink. You lost a dangerous amount of blood yesterday, d'Artagnan," he said quietly.

The young man made no move to comply. Athos steeled himself for a fight. Porthos stepped up.

"Look, runt. You were half-dead when we found you yesterday, and there's no way you can just bounce back from something like—" he began.

While speaking, d'Artagnan stepped away from the balcony with an indifferent sort of defiance but swayed and impossibly paled further.

Athos immediately shot forward and caught his friend as carefully as he could. Aramis joined the other side and peered anxiously into the young man's face. D'Artagnan's face was devoid of color, and his eyelids fluttered alarmingly.

"Get him back to the bed," Aramis said immediately, hauling his friend as carefully as possible back into the room.

"I'm….I'm alright," d'Artagnan said after a pause, seeming to gain more coherence.

"Drink this," Athos ordered, handing him a small flask followed by a hunk of bread. D'Artagnan sipped at the wine and ate without complaint, which scared Porthos more than anything that had occurred.

Aramis pulled open his shirt and probed gently at the bandages. Fortunately, all the stitches were still intact and looked clear of infection.

"It looks alright, but you still need food and rest," the medic admitted somewhat grudgingly. "How's your head?"

"It's _fine_ ," d'Artagnan said, a hint of annoyance starting to creep into his voice.

"How long were you out there?" Athos asked, looking down at his friend with a concerned expression.

D'Artagnan didn't answer. The truth was several hours, but he would sooner spend a month in the Bastille than tell the musketeer that.

"Not long," he said, finally settling on a half-truth. His mind was already far away, running back over the thoughts that had circled since he watched Constance fall.

Aramis saw the shift in the young man's focus and frowned slightly. Athos saw it too and impulsively took d'Artagnan's hand. The first thing he noticed what that it was still much too cold.

It was only after d'Artagnan had snatched it back that he realized it was trembling.

"I said I was fine, Athos," the young musketeer said, looking up at his friend finally with something like thinly veiled anger.

Athos didn't drop his gaze, trying to convey only concern and fighting the sarcastic retort that died on his lips.

"I have to go," d'Artagnan said suddenly, struggling up from his place on the bed and staggering over to the table where his clothes were neatly folded.

"Go where?" Aramis asked incredulously. "D'Artagnan, when we brought you back here, I was afraid you might not survive the night," he said soberly. "You need to rest."

"There's something I have to do," the Gascon argued, not even slowing in his actions as he fastened his belt.

"You need to rest," Porthos reiterated.

"I need to find her killers," d'Artagnan shot back, his voice not heated, just flat.

"You don't know who they were. You don't know where they went or where they came from. How do you expect to find them?" Athos asked, stepping in front of his friend.

"I remember what they look like," d'Artagnan said angrily. "I'm going to the Court of Miracles. Someone there will probably know where to start looking."

"You can't go to the Court in your condition," Athos told him flatly, laying a hand against his chest.

"Get out of my way, Athos," d'Artagnan said quietly, although he was instantly seething with rage. "I have to do this."

Athos saw the look in his eyes and stepped back, fighting the frustration he felt at the Gascon's stubbornness.

"Athos, you can't let him go!" Aramis exclaimed, darting an accusing glare at the oldest musketeer.

"He's going, whether we like it or not," Athos replied drily with a half-shrug. "But that doesn't mean he has to be alone."

"If you're going, then I'm going," Aramis said.

"You don't really think any of you will get through the Court without me, do you?" Porthos snorted, joining them at the doorway.

D'Artagnan gave them all a thin, joyless smile, then set out.

First, they stopped by the armory to get replacement weapons for d'Artagnan since his had been stolen and to get their horses saddled. Tethering them outside the Captain's steps, they went to tell Treville where they were going.

Their captain was unsurprised to see them all show up, and only nodded tightly when d'Artagnan told him what they were going to do.

"Just be careful, lad," he told the young man. "You've just suffered a great loss, and diving after them headfirst isn't the best idea."

He watched the Gascon carefully, then sighed when he realized that he may as well have been talking to the wall. D'Artagnan's face was impassive and lacking reaction to anything he said.

"Go on, then," he waved a hand at them. "Just come back in one piece," he told them, looking at Athos for reassurance.

Athos gave a serious nod, promising the Captain with his eyes that he would try his best to keep them all safe.

They set off with the wind at their backs, riding freely and easily. D'Artagnan ignored the jolts of pain from riding and spurred his horse on faster. The day was warm and sunny, but the temperate climate could do nothing against the icy chill that had settled into the young man's heart.

* * *

The first thing she was aware of was her descent. It was like floating, really. Not falling towards anything. It would have been pleasant if she couldn't hear the wind ripping past her ears and see the cliff face moving at a frightening speed. The water was so cold it took her breath away. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see, and she fought her way to the surface. She realized she was being dragged downwards, in spite of her efforts. In a panic, with her lungs beginning to burn, she tore at the laces on the back of her dress, trying in vain to pull off the heavy layers of fabric. All the while, she kicked off her shoes, and her feet were free. She finally managed to get the laces untied, and she hurriedly shrugged off the heavy corset. Her lungs were on fire now, and she had to force herself from sucking in a mouthful of water.

The dress came off next, and she felt an overwhelming relief sweep over her despite the situation. She could finally move. With spots beginning to swim before her eyes, she used her last remaining strength to kick towards the surface. She finally felt the cold wind on her face and gasped for air, again and again. She floated on her back semi-conscious, just trying to get her breath back. After several minutes, she realized she was shivering. The wind was biting on her hair and face, and the water wasn't much warmer. With an effort, she looked around and tried to ascertain where shore was.

Her heart sank when she realized how far it was, but already started pulling herself towards the shore. She had grown up on a farm with her three brothers, and there had been a small pond near their house. Her oldest brother had taken it upon himself to teach her to swim when she was young by throwing her into the cow pond. Although the pond had barely been four feet deep, she had found herself struggling to breathe, struggling to stay at the surface and panicking.

Her brother had waded out next to her and positioned her so she was floating. _"If you're ever tired or scared, then just turn on your back and float,"_ he had said, showing her she was safe. _"Floating on your back will get you where you need to go a little slower, but it'll help you relax and breathe."_

They had practiced all afternoon, and soon enough Constance had been jumping into deep water alongside her brothers and swimming like a fish. But she had never forgotten what her brother had said, and she drew on his advice now.

She calmly floated on her back, kicking her feet and trying to control her breathing as she shivered with the cold.

After an eternity, she lifted her head to see how far she had come and saw that she was almost to shore. With a burst of energy, she swam the last few feet and dragged herself onto land. The sun had started to set, and it was getting cold. The sharp rocks cut into the bottoms of her bare feet. She looked out into the ocean and sighed, thankful that she had survived. She looked up, and saw the cliff's edge, towering above her.

"D'Artagnan," she murmured. She looked around and saw that she had to hike her way back up to their previous location. It would probably take several hours, and finding a safe path in the gathering darkness would be very difficult. Nonetheless, she began pulling herself up the steep embankments and into the forest.

The hours passed slowly. Constance was cold, shivering and still sopping wet. Her lips were blue, and she was still only wearing a slip. She kept moving resolutely, although her feet were numb and her legs wobbled tiredly. She had been walking through the forest, trying to work her way up as much as possible. She looked up from her dogged plod when she realized something felt different. The trees looked similar, and she recognized the area with a jolt. The cliff wasn't too far. She broke into a tired run, unaware of her body's complaints now. She burst through the tree line to the cliff's edge where she had been pushed, and looked around. The cliff's face was empty, devoid of life. The wind howled a lone note among the rocks, and the moon shone vaguely through the gathered clouds.

She fought to hold back tears, but the disappointment was crushing. D'Artagnan was gone.

Seeing something near the edge, she walked forward and dropped to her knees. There was dried blood on the rock's hard surface, _a lot of blood_ , she realized with horror. In the low light, she noticed something else. It was a scrap of fabric, something like muslin, but softer. There was plain black thread near it, as if it had been cut from a larger spool. She picked up the fabric and immediately recognized it as the type of bandages Aramis always carried in his saddle bag.

She smiled then, tears of relief filling her eyes. This time she let them fall. D'Artagnan was with the musketeers. All she had to do was find her way back to the garrison.

* * *

She walked on in the night, stumbling with weariness over tree roots and rocks. When she thought she could take it no more, she stopped and leaned against a tree, legs trembling. It had started raining a good two hours past and hadn't let up. She could see her breath condensing in the air, and she shivered violently.

She squinted through the trees, suddenly uncertain of what she was seeing. A gleam of light peered through the gloomy darkness, and she realized it was candlelight. Moving towards it feeling a dull thread of hope, she approached a small farmhouse.

She pounded on the door, desperate to get out of the cold. Finally, a voice came from within.

"Alright, I'm coming!" The door flew open to reveal a middle-aged woman with an angry look.

"What are you doing, knocking on people's doors in the middle of the night, 'n disturbing the peace? Don't you know any better?" she demanded crossly.

"Please, I—" Constance said weakly, too spent to think of a good answer.

"Well? I haven't all night, lass! You're keeping me awake as it is!" the woman said again, preparing to shut the door.

"No, please! I've been walking for hours and—and it's c-cold," she shivered pitifully.

"It isn't any business of mine what you've been doin'," the woman returned. "You keep walking some more and don't stop until you get to wherever it is that you're from!"

She was about to slam the door when a second voice from inside asked who it was. A wizened old woman bent with age and with a wrinkled face appeared at the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" the old woman said to her daughter, smacking her with a practiced hand upside the head.

"This lass is half-frozen, wearing naught but a slip and walking around all night in the forest! Her lips are blue! Let her in, for God's sake, Adelaide!"

The younger woman, Adelaide, grimaced but complied with her mother's wishes, meekly stepping aside to admit Constance.

"We'll get you something dry to wear, and set you by the fire," the old woman said kindly, taking Constance's numb hand in hers.

Constance could only nod dumbly and do as she was told. After putting on a soft woolen blouse and thick leggings underneath a skirt, she could finally begin to feel human again. To her shock, the younger woman had even brewed a pot of tea and laid out some leftover food from their supper.

Constance had tried to refuse the food and tea, knowing she was taking from their own supplies, but the old woman would hear none of it.

"So why were you out there?" the old woman asked, after Constance had rested. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be out by yourself after nightfall. And to be walking in the rain, no less." The old woman clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and Constance had a sudden forceful reminder of her own _grand-mere_ growing up.

"I was on the cliffside in Calais with a friend, looking out over the ocean," she began. "We were enjoying the view, when some bandits attacked us. They fought with my friend and wounded him badly. One of them grabbed me. I injured him, but in the struggle, he pushed me off the cliff. My dress was too heavy to swim in; I took it off and swam back to shore. I walked back to the top, but when I got there my friend had already gone back to Paris. I need to tell him I'm alright," Constance explained.

"You were out on a cliff, _unchaperoned_ I might add, with a man? Serves you right that it happened!" the younger woman crowed with a righteous air.

"Adelaide!" the old woman said sharply. Her keen black eyes burned into her daughter's face who shrank and scurried off quickly.

"That girl is altogether too close-minded," she said, voice low with anger.

"No, she's done nothing wrong," Constance said, trying to smile but failing. The old woman's face softened.

"You need to rest, child. Paris will still be there tomorrow. You're welcome to stay here tonight; you've still got a long walk ahead of you and can't continue in the middle of the night."

"But your daughter—" Constance began.

"I will deal with Adelaide," the old woman said in a confident voice with a threatening undercurrent. Constance couldn't help feeling sorry for the younger woman.

The old woman showed Constance her room, and left her with a burning candle.

Constance tucked herself in with the blankets, and turned to look at the flame.

"I'm coming, d'Artagnan," she whispered, then blew out the light.


	4. (Dis)Order in the Court

_**A/N:**_ Hey, everyone! I wanted to thank all of you for taking the time to read or review/follow/favorite this. It means a lot that so many people are willing to look at the work that I've done, even if it just a rookie's fanfic. Anyways.

This chapter is quite a bit darker than anything so far. It contains violence, swearing and torture, but nothing exceeding the T rating I have placed on this story. Continuing with the d'Artagnan whumpage and angst, I tried to show the depth of the issue, but I'm not sure I really hit it yet. Also I tried my best not make Flea seem OOC, but I was having a really hard time getting inside her head for some reason. Her character being unrealistic is a distinct possibility here, so I would appreciate any thoughts on that as well.

As for factual accuracy, the plant mentioned here does grow in the northern regions of France, but not necessarily only in one place. I've never been to France, and I'm fairly certain flowers grow in many places. For now, kindly suspend your disbelief and accept it as a way to move the plot along to more interesting matters:). Reviews continue to be incredibly valuable, enormous gratitude to everyone reading this, once again. The next chapter will be up soon.

Namaste.

* * *

Athos watched d'Artagnan carefully from the corner of his eye, trying to hide his concern. The younger man was starting to breathe faster from the riding, and the bruise on his head was painfully obvious. The Gascon's mouth was set in lines of pain, but his eyes showed none of his discomfort. They only reflected anger, hard and flat.

When the got to the Court of Miracles, the other musketeers watched as d'Artagnan dismounted painfully, leaning against the saddle. They left their horses tied to a stable wall and issued profuse threats if their horses were to go missing. The owner turned white and trembled all over, unused to dealing with soldiers, and promised exorbitantly to safeguard the horses.

D'Artagnan strode into the crowd without looking back to see if any of the other musketeers had followed him. They caught up and walked with him in a group, Athos strode next to d'Artagnan, while Aramis and Porthos side by side behind them.

They walked around, seeming aimless for about fifteen minutes avoiding pickpockets and beggars, and trying not to walk in the middle of any obvious altercations.

They kept their faces carefully neutral, but their eyes were constantly moving. Suddenly, d'Artagnan stiffened. The others noticed his change in body posture and immediately looked around. A man, shifty looking and in threadbare leathers ambled down the street by himself. The Gascon recognized him as one of the men who had held him down.

D'Artagnan moved behind him smoothly, and the others slid into place. Aramis stepped forward.

"My friend, so good to see you!" Aramis said brightly, putting an arm around the bandit's shoulders. The man tried to push him away but froze when he felt d'Artagnan's pistol digging into his back.

"If you want to remain intact, you'd better come with us," Aramis murmured close to the criminal's ear, never losing his charismatic grin.

The man walked on as if nothing was happening, until Porthos lifted his chin subtly at a side alley. They smoothly transitioned from the busy street to the alleyway, and into a closed door that Porthos opened for them. It turned out to be a shabby hallway, where Porthos opened another wooden door. Inside, there were a few chairs and an old table, but mostly cobwebs. It was a building that had been abandoned for years, where vagrants slept occasionally.

Now it was empty, and Porthos slammed the man down into the chair, tying him up with a length of rope Athos pulled off his belt.

"What the hell is all this about?" the bandit exclaimed angrily, struggling against his bindings. D'Artagnan stepped in front of him, and the criminal's face registered shock.

Before he could speak, d'Artagnan's hand snaked out and struck him hard. He punched him again, and again. When the blows stopped, the bandit had a bleeding nose, a cut lip and a swelling left eye.

"What is the name of your leader?" d'Artagnan asked in a cold tone.

"Piss off," the man breathed. The Gascon hit him again, harder this time squarely in the jaw. He rocked back in the chair, blinking away the pain.

"What is the name of your leader?" the young musketeer asked again, fury evident under the cold enunciation.

"I'm not telling you anything!" the man snapped, glaring at the youngest musketeer.

D'Artagnan pulled out his dagger and stabbed the man through the back of the hand. Athos heard the metal make a dull thunk when it pierced through the bandit's hand and embedded itself in the wooden arm of the chair.

The man screamed in pain, and Athos rushed forward, grabbing the Gascon by the shoulders. He didn't fail to notice that his friend twisted the knife a few times before the older musketeer could drag him away.

"Alright, easy," he said to his friend. "We'll make him talk."

"It doesn't matter," d'Artagnan said back. "If he does, we'll go after the leader. If he doesn't, well."

He gave an odd smile that made the hair on the back of Athos' neck stand up. "There are three other men I can question, after all."

The criminal behind them was panting heavily, head hanging low on his chest. He was swearing at them between gasps of air.

D'Artagnan stepped forward again. "Who is your leader?"

The man muttered an imprecation at him, still shaking from the pain. In blind rage, d'Artagnan began hitting him, over and over, as hard as he could. It took both Aramis and Athos to pull him away from the man, who was semi-conscious at best.

"That's enough," Aramis told him, looking into the strangely vacant eyes of his friend.

"It will never be enough for what he did," d'Artagnan told him, fighting to keep his voice calm. A tremor ran through it anyway, and Athos joined them.

"Let's get some air," Athos murmured to him, pulling him towards the door. Aramis and Porthos led the way, with the intent of standing guard at the door. As Athos passed through the door frame, d'Artagnan lunged quickly forward.

He slammed the door behind Athos and grabbed a nearby chair. Ignoring the shout of surprise from his friend, he shoved the wooden chair underneath the door knob, effectively locking himself in with the bandit.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted, voice muffled by the ancient door. He shoved ineffectually at the entrance and pounded on the wood in vain, hoping that the Gascon would recover his senses.

D'Artagnan ignored the cries of his friend, and turned towards the man slumped in the chair.

"Tell me who your leader is," d'Artagnan said, his voice low and utterly flat. "I won't ask again."

"Go to hell," the criminal gasped, breathing hard and blinking rapidly to clear his failing vision.

D'Artagnan advanced on him.

Athos and Aramis shoved at the door until Porthos pushed them both out of the way. The large man threw all of his strength into it, and the door creaked alarmingly under the strain.

Athos listened with an increasing sense of dread. Behind the door, he could hear the bandit screaming in pain. Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and the screams intensified.

"Porthos, get this door down now!" Aramis yelled while Athos shouted for d'Artagnan again.

Porthos gave one last mighty shove at the door and it finally gave way with a dry _crack!_ Bursting into the room, Athos heard a pained, horrific gurgle. He looked towards the chair and saw d'Artagnan backing away from the criminal with a blank expression.

The bandit's throat had been slit, and he gagged a few more times struggling to get air before falling silent. D'Artagnan turned his back to the corpse and wiped his dagger off, slipping it back into its sheath. Athos noted the gunshot wound in the bandit's left thigh and looked to his friend in concern.

D'Artagnan's face remained blank. "He didn't talk," the young musketeer said tonelessly. Aramis and Porthos stared speechlessly at their friend.

"We need to leave before this gets noticed," Porthos said, already dreading the thought of others in the Court finding them here.

They ushered d'Artagnan out the door and whisked him away into the crowded street once again. They started making their way towards the main streets of Paris, when d'Artagnan suddenly slipped away from them and ran towards a back street, one hand pressed to the wound in his side.

"Damn it!" Athos cursed under his breath, running after his friend. The other musketeers followed the wayward Gascon down a side street, struggling to keep up despite his weakened condition.

In the suddenly darkened light, Athos struggled to see the shape of his friend. However, he realized d'Artagnan was chasing someone else. He suddenly sprang forward and caught the man in a flying tackle. Athos pulled up short beside them, both lying winded on the rough cobblestones. The stranger, presumedly another one of the bandits, was struggling to get up, but Porthos put a hand on his pistol and shook his head warningly.

D'Artagnan lay on the street with a hand pressed tightly to his side. His eyes were screwed shut in pain and his breath came in smothered gasps.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked him worriedly, trying to ascertain the damage he may have sustained during the capture.

The Gascon struggled to his elbows, batted away the medic's careful touch, then pushed himself up slowly off the ground without answering. He seemed shaken by the movement, but advanced towards the man still trapped on the ground by Porthos.

Stalking over, he grabbed the bandit by the collar and hauled him up, slamming him into a nearby wall with enough force to rattle the man's teeth.

"D'Artagnan—" Athos began, moving quickly to where his friend was standing, hunched over.

"Who is your leader?" he asked, holding the struggling man against the wall.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" the criminal exclaimed, trying to get away from the furious young man.

"The one who pushed her. Who is he? Where is he hiding?" d'Artagnan demanded, legs feeling unsteady. His head ached and pounded, the man's face stretched and contorted as his vision faded in and out.

"I really don't know—" he began. That was as far as the unfortunate bandit got before d'Artagnan drew his pistol and shot him in the side, high up by the ribs. The man yelled once in pain, then quieted as he slid down the wall.

Athos pulled d'Artagnan away from the dead man and noticed at once how his friend seemed to be swaying on his feet. The Gascon's head lolled back on his shoulders and he crumpled.

Athos caught him as he fell, and sank to the ground with him, cradling his upper body. Aramis ran over and felt a prick of horror as he realized d'Artagnan had torn his stitches in the commotion. Blood now slicked the front of his body again, a blooming patch of scarlet growing at an alarming pace.

"Porthos, we need to get him somewhere quiet where I can stitch him back up. Quickly," he added, worry leaking into his voice and pulling his face into lines of uncertainty.

"There's a place a few blocks from here that should be safe enough," Porthos replied immediately, mind whirling with possible locations.

"Let's go," Athos said, hauling his friend's unresponsive body up. Aramis slung one of d'Artagnan's arms around his shoulder, and Athos took the other side. Together, they hauled their unconscious friend through the streets, trying to escape unwanted attention and their own traitorous thoughts.

* * *

Finally, they arrived in the abandoned building in a deserted back alley. Porthos kicked open the door to the main room, which conveniently had a small cot and a few bowls. Athos set to filling the bowls with water. Porthos left and returned a few minutes later with some meager medical supplies. Gratefully, Aramis accepted them and tended to their friend, who remained unconscious. Porthos and Athos watched him work silently, still stunned by the events of the past few hours.

"He just killed them," Porthos finally said, voicing their thoughts. "If you told me a week ago that d'Artagnan would murder two men in cold blood, I would have punched them for even suggesting it."

"He was so cold," Aramis murmured, from his spot near the Gascon. "You could see it when he talked to us; when he was facing them it was more of an execution than an interrogation. He doesn't care whether they talk or not; in fact, he's almost hoping they won't."

"They killed Constance," Athos said, eyes never moving from his friend's still face.

They were all silent after that, just watching their friend sleep.

"I saw Flea in the street; she's the one who got the medical supplies," Porthos said suddenly. "She said she would be back with some disinfectant. Assuming she finds some," he added.

"We're lucky you're here, Porthos," Aramis murmured, tearing his eyes away from their unconscious comrade.

Porthos' reply was interrupted by a low groan from the bed. D'Artagnan came to slowly and painfully. It felt like he had been beaten all over with a stick, and his side burned worse than ever. When he finally blinked into awareness, Athos was bending over him.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, anger beginning to seep into his cool tone.

Aramis could almost see the walls slam shut over d'Artagnan's face. Every indicator of pain was banished from his face and body language, although he remained tense.

"He was one of the men who held me down. He was guilty, the same as the others," d'Artagnan said evenly.

"I'm not talking about that!" Athos said angrily. "You were injured! Badly, I might add. You can't go on like this, without proper rest! I know this is important to you but—"

"No, you don't," d'Artagnan interrupted him, eyes flashing with quick rage. "I told you not to come, Athos. I told all of you not to come. This is something I have to do. Can you understand that?" he asked, suddenly looking almost pleading.

In the ensuing silence, he added, "I don't have a choice. You knew what I was going to do! You knew it had to be this way, the minute I woke up. If you don't like it, then go back to the garrison! I don't need you."

Aramis stared at their friend and Porthos frowned. Athos, however, looked as though he'd been slapped. A mixture of shock and hurt spread across his face.

D'Artagnan saw the look on his face and felt the corners of his mouth trembling with sorrow and a soul-deep exhaustion. Despite their harshness, the Gascon didn't take back his words or lower his eyes.

It was in that moment that Aramis realized just how deeply Constance's death had affected the young man.

An uncomfortable, painful silence filled the room. Athos looked away, trying to hide his pain. D'Artagnan stared at the floor, guilty but unrepentant. The door of the old room creaked open to reveal the small figure of Flea, holding two full bottles of wine and a lumpy bundle.

"D'Artagan, you're awake! Porthos said you were in a bad way, but he didn't have time to fully explain it to me. I'm glad you're alive," she said by way of greeting, moving with her usual lack of grace. Still, for all her shabby rags and dirty appearance, she moved with an ease and comfortable nature impossible to duplicate.

"Hello, Flea," d'Artagnan said quietly, raising his eyes to look at the young woman.

"You look terrible," she said, smile morphing into a concerned frown. "What happened to your face?"

She lightly traced the bruise on his jaw from where Athos had struck him and tutted over the stitches on his head. D'Artagnan pushed away her hand, but gently.

"An accident," Athos said tersely, not wanting to explain why he had been forced to knock the musketeer out.

At Flea's questioning look, Porthos supplied, "Athos punched him out."

"By accident?" Flea asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

"No, that part was on purpose," Aramis murmured back to them.

D'Artagnan glared at them, while Flea looked bewildered.

"Well. Anyway, I've brought you wine, this should be more than enough to pour over your wounds. There may even be enough left over to drink a little. This is all for you; don't worry, I know where to get more for the others I borrowed from," Flea said, waving a hand when Porthos started to protest.

"I also brought you some clothes; I figured yours would be, well, like _that_." She waved a hand at d'Artagnan's bloodstained garments, ripped and dirty from the fight.

"Flea, do you know of anyone leading a group of bandits that work through the coastal areas? He would be a man in his early thirties, with dark hair and black eyes. He has a long scar from his temple to his cheek, and he's missing a finger on his right hand," d'Artagnan asked, trying not to get his hopes up.

"Sounds like Nicolas de Dulaurier," Flea said, after a moment's reflection. "He's a bandit that mostly works coastal areas, but he occasionally stops into the southern portion of the Court to restock his supplies. He has a band of three or four other men that he typically works with, although there hasn't been rumor of him for a while."

"Which is no great loss, to tell the truth. Nasty disposition, that one. Kills just for the sport of it, not because he wants anything," she added.

"Where can I find him?" d'Artagnan asked, fists tightly clenched in anger.

"I don't rightly know," Flea said, noting the change in the man's posture. "People say he has a house between Calais and here, but no one is sure where exactly. I can ask around, but there's no guarantee that they'll know."

"That's alright. Thank you, Flea. For everything," d'Artagnan said to the young girl, gracing her with an icy smile, trying to convey his gratitude.

She grinned back uncertainly, suddenly uncomfortable with the look on his face.

"I'd better get back and give the others their wine or they'll think I've run off with it," she said, standing and brushing her skirt off. "Come and visit us, sometime, Porthos. A lot of them still ask after you. They—I—miss you. Especially since what happened with…with Charon. It would be nice to see you," she added quietly to the musketeer.

"I know," Porthos said quietly, gripping her hand. She smiled slightly, then left, shutting the door after herself.

The room was quiet. Athos got up and looked through one of the broken windows. The alley remained deserted.

"Here," Aramis said, handing the Gascon a bottle of wine. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and poured it over the newly stitched gash in his side. He inhaled deeply but made no other noise or sign to show he was in pain. He then passed the bottle to Porthos without drinking any, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

After drying it carefully, he took off his clothes and slipped on the replacements Flea had brought him. They were slightly too large, but d'Artagnan didn't care. If he was being completely honest with himself, he was glad to be free of his customary musketeer's uniform. The business he was engaged in wasn't for musketeers, and he didn't feel right wearing it for this task. It felt somewhat like a betrayal, and he pushed away the guilt.

Rolling up the sleeves, he stood, feeling the rough fabric brush against his body.

"We should head back to the garrison soon," Aramis said. "We'll need more supplies if we're going to head into the forest after the leader. Assuming we can find it," he said, frowning slightly.

"You and Porthos go," Athos intoned, the first words he had spoken since the argument. "I'll stay here with d'Artagnan."

The Gascon's head shot up at this, despite his best efforts. He sought Athos' eyes, and d'Artagnan was shocked to see the older musketeer give him a look of familiar secrecy and cunning. The younger musketeer's eyes widened in realization and Athos gave him the barest of nods.

"Are you sure?" Aramis asked, looking Athos directly in the face, offering a way out.

"I don't think—" Porthos began, before being cut off by one of Athos' trademark looks that showed his characteristic stubbornness.

"Alright, it'll take us a little while to gather the supplies and get back," Aramis warned, giving them one last chance.

"Just _go_ , Aramis," d'Artagnan said impatiently. "We'll be fine."

"I can't wait until you're better, runt," Porthos grumbled under his breath as he left the room. "Then we'll see who bosses who."

The door latched behind the musketeers, and d'Artagnan looked to Athos with gratitude.

"I said I would stay here with you," Athos said, unrepentant. "As long as we stay within the Court, say maybe tracking down the last brigand, I will have kept my word."

"Athos, I—" d'Artagnan began.

The former comte held up a hand to silence him. "You don't need to explain or apologize, d'Artagnan. I should have understood from the beginning that you can't walk away from this. But you also have to understand: it was hard for us to see. In all the time I've known you, I never thought you capable of what I've seen today."

Serious blue eyes stared unflinchingly into regret-filled brown orbs.

"I'm sorry, Athos," d'Artagnan whispered brokenly, curling his shaking hands into fists. He tried to ignore his feelings, but a growing sense of bitter regret and sorrow was settling into the pit of his stomach. Knowing he had failed Athos and his brothers was another raw, angry wound opened in his soul. He felt as though he was drowning in his despair when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Athos gave him a sad smile.

"I know," he replied softly, conveying more pain and understanding in his voice and his eyes than d'Artagnan had seen in a long time.

Athos cleared his throat and stepped back, readjusting his hat to cover his eyes.

"We should get going if we want Aramis and Porthos to think we actually just sat here," he said.

"They know we're leaving," d'Artagnan answered, slipping off the bed. "They're letting us do it."

Athos sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "There's a special place reserved in hell for those who act immorally with the best intentions. I'm fairly certain you and I are starting to fit that description quite nicely."

D'Artagnan shrugged, smiling without humor. "Probably."

Athos glanced at him, flashed him a rueful grin and led the way into the streets of the Court.

* * *

They searched for as long as they dared, walking every street, checking every alley for a sign of the other criminals. Finally, with aching feet and the sun beginning to set, they were forced to concede defeat. Athos remained impassive, but he could see the anger and desperation showing behind d'Artagnan's carefully controlled face.

They walked back into their previous location to see Aramis and Porthos waiting at the table. Aramis had his arms crossed and an annoyed look. Porthos didn't even pretend to be upset with them. "Did you find 'em?" he asked without preamble.

"No," d'Artagnan answered shortly, moving to the far end of the room. Athos slumped down into an empty seat at the table, and Porthos began taking food out of the bag he and Aramis had brought with them.

"You should eat something," Aramis told d'Artagnan, who was pacing.

"I'm not hungry," the Gascon said absentmindedly, chewing on a thumbnail.

"You won't make it until we find the leader at this rate, d'Artagnan," Porthos said admonishingly. "You need to remember to take care of yourself once in a while."

D'Artagnan stopped his pacing with a sudden jolt, head snapping upright. "You're right. I need to remember," he murmured to himself.

He immediately stopped pacing and sat down on the floor, cross-legged with his eyes closed.

Athos raised an eyebrow at Aramis, clearly asking without words if the Gascon had gone mad.

"I turned, and they were there," d'Artagnan said slowly, keeping his eyes closed. His brow was creased in concentration.

"They hit me before I could do anything. I fell," he continued, reliving the scene in his mind's eye. "I lunged…"

 _D'Artagnan saw the man grab Constance and stood up. He felt giddy, bilious. The enemies swam in and out of focus, multiplying then decreasing in number. He drew his sword and swayed on his feet._

"One of them struck at me, while the other cut me, here," d'Artagnan whispered, tracing the newly-stitched gash on his side with a light finger.

 _He was on the ground. The hand underneath his chin was strong. The man was powerful, and he knew it. There was the clink of his metal workings against the doublet he wore. The smell of leather and dust, with something familiar underneath…A flash of purple on the toe of a worn boot…_

"It was something that smelled like damp moss, but also a little flowery…It was heather!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, eyes flying open.

"The leader must have stepped on some, it was crushed on his boot!" he rose from his place on the floor, getting more animated.

"Heather only grows north of here, between Amiens and Paris," Aramis said, remembering the poisonous purple flowers.

"The areas to the east and west are too heavily populated. That should put his house about thirty leagues north of here." Porthos added.

"He'll need a source of water," Athos said, thinking about the area. "There's a river another five leagues or so to the east. Clean, cold. The other ground is filled with brimstone, it wouldn't be good to dig a well in. He must be fairly close to the river."

D'Artagnan looked at his friends, the strange backlit glow present in his eyes again.

"Let's go," he said.

"What about dinner?" Porthos asked incredulously.

"There's no time for that now," d'Artagnan said, shrugging on a shabby cloak.

Athos was the first to stand up, joining him at the door. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, then followed with a sigh. Porthos took one last, longing look at the food laid out on the table and closed the door behind them. The chamber was left empty, with its broken window and the smoking candle burning sadly on the table.


	5. Fleeing Yourself

_**A/N:**_ Hello again! Another chapter down (and much, much sooner than expected!) I don't know what it is about this story, but I just can't stop writing. This chapter is fairly short, more of an in-between explaining things that are going on with everyone.

 _This chapter deals with some dark topics, including a bad nightmare. For those who wish to skip it, it begins where the italicized letters are, about three quarters of the way through._

I wrote most of this in the middle of the night, thinking about what I would do if the person I cared most about in the world were taken from me. It's a great head space to be in to write this sort of thing, but a terrible place to be in for pretty much everything else. Writing is good if it makes you reflect, but going too far and making something haunting is altogether too easy, especially when dealing with subject matter like this. Thoughts on any of this would be appreciated.

I want to express undying admiration and gratitude for everyone still with the story. Without the reviews I've gotten, I wouldn't have continued nearly this far this fast. Thank you all. The next chapter probably won't come out until later this week or early next week due to the sheer amount of things for school that I have to get completed.

All mistakes are my own. Still don't own this, still wish I did.

* * *

Constance was roused from her sleep early when Adelaide slammed open her door and grumpily announced that breakfast was ready. She dressed in the plain, practical clothes she had been given the previous night and crept carefully down the stairs. The old woman was bustling cheerfully around the small kitchen, while Adelaide slammed dishes angrily down on the table. One look from her mother, and the younger woman fled out the door under the muttered pretense of feeding the chickens.

Constance ate her breakfast gratefully with the old woman in a comfortable kind of silence.

"I want to thank you and your daughter for everything you've done for me," Constance said earnestly, trying to show the feelings her words could only express inadequately.

"No trouble a'tall, my dear," the old woman said kindly, gracing the beautiful young woman with a friendly smile.

"I don't have anything to pay you," Constance began awkwardly, blushing at her own lack of grace.

"If I had wanted money, I wouldn't have let you stay last night," the old woman said, eyes twinkling with good humor. "Not like there were plenty of places to hide any money when I saw you last night, walking around in naught but your skin, near."

Constance flushed again, imagining how she must have looked, dripping like a drowned rat and practically naked.

"Calm down, girl, calm," the old woman soothed, raising a gnarled hand. "'t'wasn't the first time something strange appeared on my doorstep, I suspect it won't be the last, either. I'm just glad I could help. You've a mind to head back to Paris, then?"

"Yes, I have to go," Constance said.

"Well, then, off with you," the old woman told her with a shooing motion. "I won't keep you. If you're ever in this part of the forest again, maybe bring some tea with you next time," she said teasingly.

Constance smiled and stepped out the door.

* * *

She moved as fast as she could, buoyed by the knowledge that Paris was now only half an hour's walk from her current location. The day had passed in a long, endless drudgery of walking, and she began to loathe the sight of the road stretching before her. She walked on the grass beside a rough dirt path that many carriages and wagons now used.

Some gave her strange passing looks, noting the ill-fitting clothes and her bare feet, but Constance could care less at the moment. Her mind was occupied with what she would say to d'Artagnan when she walked in, with blisters on her feet and tired, but very much alive.

Constance broke into a run when she reached the walls of Paris, dodging people in the streets and not slowing until she reached the gate of the garrison. Out of breath, she paused for a moment. A few musketeers were training in the yard. Some looked at her, shocked to see a woman running into their sacred space.

"Is Captain Treville here?" she asked one of them breathlessly. He jerked a thumb towards the stairs, where the office was.

"He got here about twenty minutes ago, _mademoiselle_."

She was about to correct him, then thought better of it. "Thank you!" she yelled over her shoulder. He tilted his chin up in reply, then stared after her in disbelief as she pelted up the stairs.

Constance burst into the Captain's office, forgetting to knock. Treville rose from his seat, pistol drawn and hammer cocked back. He froze in shock when he realized who he was aiming at and hastily re-holstered his weapon.

Constance stood in his doorway, suddenly uncertain of what to say and painfully self-conscious of her appearance. Treville crossed the room in two easy strides and pulled her into a tight hug.

"It's good to see you, lass," he said gruffly, releasing his grip to look her up and down. "You look as though you've had an adventure of your own," he said, noting the homespun clothing she wore.

"I'd be happy to explain everything, Captain, after I've found d'Artagnan. Is he here?" she asked anxiously.

Treville sighed and ran a hand over his hair unhappily.

"He and the others left for the Court of Miracles early this morning to find those responsible for, well. For your death. A few hours ago, Aramis and Porthos came back to get supplies and to tell me they were leaving for the distance between here and Calais; he said they weren't sure of where exactly. Only that the leader, a Nicolas de Dulaurier, was rumored to live there."

Constance's heart sank. She had walked all the way from Calais, only to realize that her love was headed in the other direction, back the way she had came.

Swallowing her disappointment, she squared her shoulders and turned back to Treville.

"Is there a horse I can borrow? With some supplies? I need to find him," Constance asked the captain.

He bit his moustache and thought. "There's an Andalusian in the stables that no one is using currently. Go there, get one of the hostlers to outfit you with any equipment or supplies you may need."

She felt tears of gratitude prick at her eyes and grabbed the Captain's hand compulsively. "Thank you, sir!"

He smiled and brushed the back of her hand with his lips. "D'Artagnan took it hard, Constance," he said seriously, looking into her eyes. "You'll have to ride like the devil himself if you want to catch him before he finds the man responsible. The lad's in a bad place right now. Bring him back to us," he said softly.

"I will," she promised solemnly, then ran out of the room.

Treville watched her go, heart aching with the hope that she would get to the Gascon in time.

* * *

They had been riding well into the night. Their horses stumbled with weariness over logs that threatened to break their legs in the darkness. The riders were getting sore and tired. Only d'Artagnan was showing no signs of slowing down. He kept riding like a man possessed. Athos found himself resenting the uncompromising back in front of him and forced himself to keep moving. Finally, Aramis called the group to a halt.

"Why have we stopped?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"It's dark. We can barely see our way," Aramis returned, trying to keep his voice civil.

"It's not too dark," the youngest musketeer argued. "We have to keep going."

"D'Artagnan, the horses will give out from exhaustion if we keep driving them like this," Athos said quietly by his side. "We need to stop, at least to give them a few hours rest. We'll begin again at first light."

"Six hours?" d'Artagnan asked incredulously. "If we rest for longer than three, Dulaurier might leave and we could lose him entirely!"

"If we don't stop for at least four, the horses will give out halfway there and we'll be forced to walk, which will almost definitely ensure he escapes," Athos replied evenly, carefully maintaining his calm exterior.

He could see exhaustion and determination warring on the young man's face. His reluctance to stop was tempered by the knowledge that Athos was right.

"Four hours," he allowed grudgingly. "Not a moment more. We'll make camp here."

They finally dismounted, stiff from riding so long. They all led their horses to a nearby brook and let them drink. Porthos collected some firewood, while d'Artagnan collected rocks to create a ring. Athos pulled out the food rations while Aramis set up the bedrolls.

They ate quickly and sat around the dying embers of the fire.

"I'll take first watch," d'Artagnan volunteered.

"Hard luck, friend," Aramis said, not unkindly. "'Fraid you're going to sleep first, actually."

"I'm not tired," he replied immediately. It was far from the truth. Now that he had stopped moving, he felt his tired eyes beginning to droop and his body was slowing down from exhaustion.

The careful eye of Aramis missed none of this and hummed in disbelief.

"Bed. Now. We'll wake you when it's your turn," the handsome musketeer promised, feeling that his lie would be forgiven. He had no intention of waking the musketeer at all, and he could see agreement in the expressions of Athos and Porthos.

The Gascon made a face as if he knew exactly what Aramis was thinking but rolled onto his uninjured side without complaint. In a few minutes, his breath evened out and his body relaxed further.

"Pup was completely spent," Porthos commented, noting the ease with which their friend had fallen asleep.

"This is probably the first time he's slept since it happened," Aramis said sadly.

"I don't doubt it," Athos added.

"I'll take first watch," Aramis said, although he was also tired.

"I won't argue," Porthos said, stretching out to sleep.

Aramis rolled his eyes fondly and looked out over his brothers. While Porthos snored loud enough to wake the dead, Athos seemed to sleep like the dead, not bothered in the slightest by the noise.

The handsome musketeer frowned when he realized d'Artagnan seemed to be sleeping restlessly. His brow was coated in a thin sheet of sweat and he tossed fitfully, caught in the throes of a nightmare.

Aramis felt his forehead and sighed; he was burning with fever. Despite their earlier efforts, it seemed that d'Artagnan's wound had become infected.

The medic wasn't surprised but couldn't stop the tide of regret that washed over him. If only he could have done something. Aramis settled himself on the ground, resolving to keep watch over his brothers through the darkness of the night.

* * *

 _He ran through the forest as fast as he could, searching for something without knowing exactly what it was._ _His feet pounded the earth, and his side burned painfully with every stride. Although his lungs were aching and his legs shook, he refused to slow down. If he could only find it…_

 _Suddenly, the ground simply disappeared beneath his feet. He was falling; he looked down and saw the cliff face hurtling by at a ferocious speed. He landed in the water, deathly cold and suffocating. No matter how hard he struggled, he knew he was sinking. He fought desperately to claw his way to the surface, but continued his descent._

 _Finally, he landed on the bottom of the ocean, held in place by some invisible force that refused to let him go. Looking around frantically, he felt terror when he looked up and realized how far away the surface was. Much too far for him to swim without running out of air._

" _D'Artagnan," he heard a whisper, and his head snapped to his left._

 _Constance was seated on a large rock at the bottom of the ocean. She was beautiful in a way that was unearthly. Her white skin glowed in the moonlight that reached them. Her hair floated out in a halo around her head._

" _D'Artagnan," she said again. He could see the tiny bubbles escaping her mouth with her words, fleeing to the surface._

 _He was too shocked to do anything. He forgot where he was, forgot that he was running out of air, forgot everything._

 _Her necklace, still broken and bloodstained, lay near her underwater throne, seeming to accuse him silently._

 _As he stared at her, his love's face contorted with rage. Her eyes seemed to burn holes in his, and he watched in mute horror as her features seemed to change into something fey, completely alien and terrible. Her snarl deepened into a look of black hatred._

 _Her face became that of a demon's, vile and malicious in a way impossible to describe. As he watched, this too melted away, leaving only the skeleton below it. He could see the delicate globe of her skull gleaming in the dull light. Her hair, now wiry and falling out in clumps, still floated about her in a mockery of beauty. He tried to scream as her fingers, now bony and dry, reached for him in a parody of a lover's touch. An eel, dark and glistening, writhed and twisted into her empty eye socket, then exited through her gaping mouth between bare teeth._

" _Look what you've done to me," she whispered._

* * *

D'Artagnan sat bolt upright, gasping for breath and heart pounding hard enough to hurt his chest. He struggled against the wave of residual emotions left over from the nightmare, but he knew he was failing. Athos watched the young man wrestle with himself in deep concern, but kept his distance.

D'Artagnan hid his face in his arms and sobbed once, a dry harsh sound. He stood up and took a few steps away from the fire. He breathed deeply, trying to master himself. It was a long time before he found that he could, and even longer before he forced himself to go sit down beside Athos, who was now on watch.

"Aramis said this might happen as a result of the fever. Your wound is infected," Athos intoned quietly. "Was it bad?" he asked, not trying to force him to talk.

"It was just a nightmare," d'Artagnan said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

"It's only been an hour and a half," Athos told him, staring up at the stars. "You can still head back to sleep."

D'Artagnan shook his head, not wanting to risk another dream. "I've had enough."

Athos sighed quietly but didn't press the issue. They sat in silence, both ensconced in their thoughts. The guard shifted, and d'Artagnan stayed awake. When Porthos took watch, the larger musketeer sighed to see the Gascon, but didn't comment.

* * *

Two hours before first light, they woke, sore and tired in the gray morning. D'Artagnan looked worse for the wear. His face was pale except for two feverish spots of color high on his cheekbones. His eyes were haunted and dark. It was the first time Athos had seen him look defeated.

"We should reach Dulaurier's house by first light," Aramis said, breaking the silence.

"Let's eat, and then we can leave," Porthos said, trying his best to infuse some cheer into the somber mood and failing.

None of them had much of an appetite, but they forced themselves to at least nibble on something. Only d'Artagnan refused anything, staring off into space and through the woods restlessly.

After eating, Aramis looked at d'Artagnan's wound, and frowned when he felt the fever burning its way through his friend. D'Artagnan sat passively through the ministrations, not wincing when he brushed against the wound or checked the bruises on his head. Finally, Aramis sighed and rocked back on his heels.

"You can't continue like this, d'Artagnan," Aramis said, taking his friend's hand.

D'Artagnan turned his head slowly, and Aramis had the odd impression that the musketeer was seeing right through him, looking at something entirely different.

"I won't need to continue for much longer," the Gascon replied, squeezing the medic's hand lightly. Aramis broke out in a cold sweat at the calm finality in his friend's voice.

They mounted silently in the lifeless morning. D'Artagnan leaned forward in his saddle, body burning with pain and too exhausted to move. Steeling his frayed nerves, he forced himself upright and led the group. He began at a walk, then started to canter. Soon, he found himself yearning to gallop. He spurred the horse on, unmindful of the speed or the tenuous grip he had on the reins. The rushing wind blurred the gathering tears in his eyes.

With every stride of the horse, he could feel himself hurtling towards something impossible to ignore. He felt as if he were moving towards a point from which he could never return. He dully realized he could never ask his brothers to follow him to the dark place he was headed, and his sense of isolation increased. With a heavy heart, he rode on, moving like the wind in the hopes of outrunning the ghosts plaguing his mind.


	6. The Final Duel

_**A/N:**_ Hey, everyone! So, this is up a bit later than I expected, but finals are over now and I've had more time to write. I'm fairly pleased with how this turned out, but please let me know what you think! For anyone still left, thanks for following my story this far, and I hope it's to your liking :). There will be one more chapter, as an epilogue, wrap-up sort of thing, but I'm not sure when it will be up exactly.

Disclaimer: We all know how these things work, so when you see this, apply whichever standard statement you feel works best. All mistakes are still mine. For this chapter, quite a bit of inspiration came from a quote from Stephen King's The Dark Tower series, the Treasure Planet soundtrack, and rereading some of the classic fight scenes in The Three Musketeers and Twenty Years After. I own none of these wonderful things. Happy holidays!

* * *

 _I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. **I aim with my eye.**_

 _I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. **I shoot with my mind.**_

 _I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. **I kill with my heart.**_

-Stephen King's The Dark Tower series.

* * *

The pale light of early morning washed over the small cottage. Some of the light crept into a window, lighting everything with a weak, sickly glow. The birds kept quiet in the trees, huddled into the last few hours of sleep and warmth before another day came. Inside the cottage, Nicolas de Dulaurier had yet to sleep. He was seated at the table with a needle and thread, mending one of his shirts with a stoic kind of patience. Across his face were four deep cuts, still angry looking and beginning to heal. Seated across from him was a large man, the bandit who had restrained Constance. He was currently engaged in devouring a leg of mutton and some chunks of sliced potatoes for breakfast.

A third man was present in the room. He nervously paced the length of the small kitchen, absentmindedly twirling a small knife between scarred fingertips.

"He already killed Luc and Jules," the nervous man said suddenly, breaking the silence and directing his sharp, shrewd glance towards his leader.

Dularurier kept quietly sewing with a single-minded air, not even appearing to have heard his comrade.

"He'll be coming after us next, for what we did," he continued, now biting nervously on his thumbnail.

"Yes, I should think so," Dulaurier replied calmly after a moment's pause to inspect his work.

"What are we going to do? He shouldn't even be alive; I don't understand it!" the bandit all but wailed, losing himself to despair.

The bigger man at the table snorted and drank half a tankard of wine in a single draught. "You worry too much," he grunted. "Let 'im come. Little rat's probably more than half-dead by this time; and I don't think he'll be able to do much against the three of us."

"In the Court, they say he's traveling with three others," Dulaurier intoned. "Musketeers." His lips curled around the word disdainfully.

"Why would the King send his guards after us?" the small man asked in a jerky movement. Suddenly he paled and turned to look at his leader, naked terror showing in his eyes.

"You don't think the woman who died was a noble—do you?"

"No, you idiot," Dulaurier said with a biting edge to his voice. "She wasn't a noble; she had the hands and dress of a commoner."

"This isn't the King's doing, they're not here on official business. This is a personal score to settle for the one called d'Artagnan. He won't stop until he's seen all three of us die by his hand, I imagine," he added unconcernedly, brushing dust off his clothes.

The smaller man gulped and remembered what his compatriots had looked like when he found them.

"We have to leave, Nicolas, please," the cowardly brigand begged his leader. "We must flee, before they come for us! We can escape through Havre and be in England by nightfall; they'll never catch us!"

"We're not going anywhere." Dulaurier's eyes were cold and flat, although sparks of terrible anger shone in them.

"I'm not going to stay here and wait for them to come and slaughter us all like lambs!" the bandit snapped back in fear.

Dulaurier stood up from the table silently, staring the criminal down. Although they were the same height, the leader seemed to tower over the coward.

"Sit down," he ordered softly.

"Look, Nicolas. I was with you, when you decided to go up on that cliff," began the bandit, real anger beginning to show in his face. "I stood by you when the girl fell and we left him to die. Jules and Luc paid for their loyalty through their blood, but not me! I want to live for more than you and the vendettas you get us tangled up in! Fight your own battles."

He stood up from the table and his chair skidded loudly across the floor. Dulaurier stood up with him, still looking utterly composed, save for the fearsome fire in his eyes.

"If that's how you feel then I won't stop you," the leader said in a soft, almost pleasant voice. "Some things aren't worth dying for, and I can respect a man for choosing when to fight."

The smaller bandit released a breath he hadn't known he was holding and willed his trembling legs to carry him to the door. Before he could get two steps, Dulaurier's hand flicked to his belt and out again in a practiced move. A silver knife embedded itself into the deserter's back and he went down with a cry of pain.

"There is nothing more loathsome than a man who goes back on his word," Dulaurier snarled, features twisted with disgust. "Deserting the cause you have sworn to uphold is abject cowardice, nothing more."

He stalked over to the prone man who lay shaking on the floor in pain and kicked him viciously in the side. The bandit gasped in agony and coughed, bringing up blood.

"It is the last resort of the weak-minded," Dulaurier continued talking, voice growing darker and expression darkening into something frightening.

At the table, the larger bandit had stopped eating, watching the scene with growing unease.

"It is the final escape for those lacking the resolve to do what must be done!" Dulaurier stomped on the man's hand, feeling fingers break under the heel of his boot.

The hapless bandit screamed.

"Weakness is present in every operation in the world. There will always be those who hesitate, who fall back at the critical moment when victory is at hand!" Dulaurier was shouting now, the scar standing out on his white face. He dropped to one knee and twisted the knife mercilessly.

The bandit shook soundlessly, the pain too intense to cry out. Tears ran down his face uncontrollably as he mindlessly fought to pull himself towards the door.

"This is mankind's greatest failure, the eternal albatross around humanity's neck!"

Dulaurier watched pitilessly as the bandit crawled agonizingly over the floor. His outstretched fingertips brushed the doorframe.

"And when weakness is recognized, a man has a choice. He can accept it and be only as powerful as his weaknesses."

The wounded man was pulling himself over the threshold, desperately trying to escape.

"Or he can release them, and become more."

Dulaurier pulled out his pistol, fast as any musketeer, and shot the bandit squarely in the back of the head, leaving him slumped half over the threshold.

"As I now release you," he finished, breath quickened and heart pounding in his chest. He stood over the man with the gun still smoking, letting the emotions wash over him in overpowering waves. The exhilaration, the excitement, the _control_ was intoxicating, and he closed his eyes for several moments.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the bigger man, who had watched the entire exchange and now looked slightly sick.

"They'll be here by first light," Dulaurier said, gazing out his open window. "Gather the weapons and meet me by the barn. We haven't much time."

"What are you going to do?" the bigger bandit asked, almost afraid of what the answer would be.

The leader looked at him with an oddly crazed grin that didn't meet his eyes. "We're going to help him release his weakness."

* * *

Constance rode on through the night, forcing her exhausted eyes to sweep the terrain. She had, against her instincts, been traveling at a slower pace, so as to not wear the horse entirely out. The stable hand had assured her that this was the most effective way to catch someone who had time and distance pegged against you. The horse could keep this pace for hours, possibly even a day if necessary without too much harm.

Now, in the dark of the night, she couldn't help but feel panicky. She was still hours away from where the bandit's house supposedly was, and there had been no sign of the musketeers or d'Artagnan. She pressed on stubbornly, struggling against her internal conflict to go as fast as she could. She would catch up with them. Her love could still be saved.

* * *

D'Artagnan leaned drunkenly over the saddle, almost swooning with exhaustion and pain. The trail had long since ceased to become a defined thing of grass and dirt. Now it was all just a shapeless mass that blurred and swayed with the movements of the horse. He refused to slow down, even as he felt himself slipping slightly in the saddle. The cottage would be near, he felt sure of it. He could feel his heartbeat in his side, a pulsing, gaping wound that screamed with every jolt. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Athos rode beside him, hating to see him continue, knowing he would never stop if he asked for a break. Aramis and Porthos rode on the Gascon's left, watching him surreptitiously.

As the hours dragged on, the woods became thicker, and they were obliged to slow their horses slightly, lest they overshoot the cottage. Finally, Porthos thought he caught a glimpse of something that didn't belong through the wooded trees. He signaled to Athos, who immediately dismounted and led his horse behind some bushes. The others followed.

D'Artagnan slipped off his horse and onto the ground bonelessly. Athos' heart gave a nasty jolt before he realized that the Gascon was already stumbling back to his feet, leaning heavily on a nearby birch tree. He mumbled to himself unceasingly under his breath, and his legs shook with the effort. Porthos watched him with sorrow-filled eyes, and Aramis tried to help lead him over to the embankment Athos had chosen as their hiding place. The musketeer's fever was high, making him feel light and detached, although the sensation wasn't altogether unpleasant.

His head fell forward on his shoulders, and his vision swam as he desperately tried to make himself focus. When he opened his eyes again, he was leaned against Athos' chest, and Aramis was gazing into his face earnestly with a look of regret.

D'Artagnan smiled wanly at him, as if to reassure him that it wasn't their fault, then struggled to peer over the embankment. The cottage lay solitary in a meadow as dawn's first light was strewn across its rough-hewn surface.

"He's there," Athos murmured quietly, to the others. A thin trail of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney into the crisp morning air, and d'Artagnan's jaw clenched painfully.

"You know that I have to go," he began, addressing his friends. "But I can't ask you to go in with me."

Athos smiled humorlessly. "What else are we to do this early in the morning?" he gestured with a languid hand.

"We're not leaving you, d'Artagnan," Aramis said, frowning slightly at Athos.

"To the end," Porthos added, completing the thought.

Together, they drew their pistols and crept towards the cottage door.

* * *

Porthos reached it first, hating how open the surroundings were. Positioning himself at one side with Athos on the other, he waited until the elder musketeer gave him a nod before kicking the door open. Aramis and d'Artagnan immediately rushed forward with their pistols aimed to shoot anything that moved. For a tense moment, they surveyed the room and realized it was empty.

A small fire burned merrily in the hearth alone. The kitchen was small and sparsely furnished, although clean and well-kept. Stalking through the room quietly, Athos noticed the adjoining rooms. He gestured to Aramis and they fanned out, keeping their guns raised.

"It's empty," Porthos said, as the two returned from their exploration.

"Yes, but look," d'Artagnan said, kneeling by the door. Although the surface was devoid of blood, some had soaked into the floorboards staining them red.

"There's a barn outside," Aramis murmured to his friends.

Porthos offered a hand to his friend who was still kneeling and pulled him up from the floor carefully.

It was a cold morning, the light just beginning to color the spaces between the tree branches. The grass was wet and slick under d'Artagnan's boots, and he could see his breath in the air.

The barn stood quietly in the yard, the doorway bathed in shadow. Inside, Dulaurier calmly regarded the approaching footsteps from his vantage point in the hay loft.

The door was flung open, and the musketeers moved quickly inside, assessing their surroundings. Athos blinked with the sudden change of light, trying to make his eyes focus to the dim interior of the barn.

Aramis fought a sneeze, noting all the dry, dusty hay in the barn. Freezing with shock, they noted the unfortunate bandit who had been killed by Dulaurier. His body was propped up in the corner, sightless eyes staring and a frightened grimace frozen in place.

Behind him, Porthos' heart sank as he heard the heavy barn door shut. Athos uttered a shout of surprise and threw himself at the door, but the big gunsel had locked it tight and wedged a thick plank of ash between the door hooks. They were trapped.

Amidst their surprise and frustration at having been caught so easily, the leader breathed out, then opened his eyes.

"Please excuse the state of my coworker," Dulaurier said, standing up on the hayloft.

They spun as one, four guns trained on the criminal.

"I know you wanted the opportunity to kill all of us, d'Artagnan, and I apologize for having deprived you of that pleasure; though I think you would understand my motives. He just wasn't strong enough," the mastermind continued as he moved closer to the edge.

Porthos cocked his pistol back when Aramis grabbed his outstretched arm in panic.

"No, Porthos! If one spark lands on the hay, this whole barn will go up in flames," the handsome musketeer exclaimed.

D'Artagnan looked at his adversary in fury. Dulaurier grinned at him, suddenly, and the younger musketeer felt a shudder rip through his body.

"This must be frustrating for you. Knowing your revenge is right there and just—" he snatched his hand violently in the air, making d'Artagnan flinch. "Missing it."

"That's enough," Athos said, voice low and dangerous, looking at the man with naked hatred.

"The shot isn't too far, d'Artagnan," Dulaurier continued, urging the musketeer on. "I'm maybe twenty paces from you. Surely you've taken farther shots in training or in combat."

"The fire would kill my friends," d'Artagnan said in a toneless voice, clenching his hand around the pistol at his side.

"Yes, but you would have the satisfaction of dying with the knowledge that you killed the one who had taken her from you," Dulaurier replied.

"I won't condemn them to death. This isn't their fight," the musketeer said quietly.

"You're alone now, d'Artagnan. Everything you could have had is gone. An entire existence wrested from what you thought was so impenetrable. And now that you're here, taking revenge for the lifetime I've stolen from you, I bet you can't even do it," Dulaurier said in a quiet, slick voice that set Aramis' teeth on edge.

"I don't have a choice," d'Artagnan said, voice trembling as he fought to keep his composure.

"Your hand is shaking. You'll miss," Dulaurier hissed suddenly, stepping forward. His face was contorted in savage excitement and a grim sort of elation. His wild black eyes focused on d'Artagnan with a wild sort of fervor and he seemed charged with energy.

D'Artagnan raised his shaking hand, and his face turned impassive as stone. Before Athos could shout a warning, the Gascon fired. The brigand hunched over, crying out momentarily from the pain of the ball that embedded itself in his shoulder.

A spark landed on the hay surrounding them and was instantly ablaze. It spread to half the hay on the floor at an alarming pace, and the musketeers ran for the ladder to the hay loft. The fire crackled and roared, moving with a savage life all its own.

Dulaurier recovered and moved toward the window located near the back of the hayloft. It was small, barely more than an opening designed to keep air moving into the structure, but big enough for him to slip out of.

D'Artagnan was climbing the ladder to the hayloft even as the wood heated beneath his hands, blistering his palms. The ancient wood splintered and crumbled under his grip and he had just gotten his fingertips on the edge of the loft when the ladder suddenly gave way.

The hapless musketeer was left dangling in midair as the flames licked at the wood. He pulled himself onto the platform with a grunt of exertion. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes from scraping his injured side against the lip of the platform. He stood up and realized his friends were trapped.

The ladder leading to the window was beyond repair. The hayloft too high to reach without it, and the only exit had been effectively barricaded, first by the large henchman, now by the flames.

Dulaurier pulled himself through the window frame and onto the roof. The bandit then slipped downwards towards the edge and used an eave to lower himself before dropping to the ground easily.

D'Artagnan was behind him, torn in indecision. He looked down to Athos in a panic, who frowned at him.

"Go on, d'Artagnan!" he shouted amidst the crackling of the fire. "For God's sake, don't let him escape! We'll be fine!"

The youngest musketeer fought back tears as he followed his enemy out the window, weighed down by the knowledge that he was condemning his closest friends to death. Athos watched him disappear through the window with a heavy heart, and sighed.

* * *

D'Artagnan hit the ground hard, rolling instinctively. It was clumsy, but saved him from worse injury. He stood up, ignoring the waves of pain radiating from the gash in his side and focusing on the cool air outside.

Dulaurier stood opposite him about ten paces. His body was all tense lines, unmoving as a statue and coiled like a spring. If the wound in his shoulder was bothering him, he didn't show it. He looked at the musketeer with something like cold approval, then his hand darted for his pistol.

D'Artagnan blindly reached for his, knowing that he was too slow, knowing that the gun was empty even if he managed to draw first.

The bandit had his gun trained on the musketeer, who looked at his own in contempt, then dropped it, knowing it was useless anyway. Dulaurier leveled his gun, then pointed it to the sky and pulled the trigger.

D'Artagnan recoiled from the sudden noise, then looked in confusion at his adversary, who had wasted his shot.

"Pistols are impersonal," the criminal said, dropping his pistol beside him in the grass. "Your mission requires something a little more….involved."

Slowly, locking eyes with his enemy, Dulaurier drew his sword.

D'Artagnan likewise drew his weapon, feeling the pull in his side and knowing he would never stand a chance in his condition. Tears of frustration stood in his eyes. Behind them, the barn's roof collapsed inward with a heart-breaking crack, falling into the fiery destruction.

The musketeer turned towards the barn and stared in horror and grief as he watched the building burn.

Dulaurier watched him carefully as he turned back to the circle, looking at his enemy.

"They couldn't have survived that," the bandit said tauntingly. "You know they couldn't have survived that."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and felt a tear fall. Dulaurier's words echoed the thoughts swirling in his head.

He opened his eyes and raised his sword. "Nicolas de Dulaurier," he began.

"You have taken from me the people I hold dear most in the world. You know there isn't another way."

"I understand," Dulaurier said seriously. "I know you've sworn to kill me. But be advised that I shall do my utmost to take you with me."

"I pardon you, for the evil you have done me. I forgive you for my future crushed, my honor as well as my love lost, and for the despair into which you've thrown me. If you are still able to do so, die in peace," D'Artagnan continued, knowing his brothers were with him in that moment.

"There can never be peace now, for either of us. You know that," Dulaurier replied softly, looking at his enemy with something like understanding.

They moved as one towards each other, bristling with steel and clashing in the final battle. D'Artagnan sliced diagonally in a powerful blow which Dulaurier blocked easily. He pulled his sword away, quick as the devil himself and lunged forward, hoping to catch the brigand in a piercing attack. He leapt sideways and blocked. D'Artagnan found himself coldly assessing the situation, noting that Dulaurier seemed to be favoring his left side, the side he had shot. His defenses would be weak there….

They battled, on and on, neither giving an inch. D'Artagnan blocked an upwards slice, countered it with a downwards strike. He could feel sweat stinging the wound in his side and he was getting out of breath quickly. Still, he refused to slow, to surrender. Through the exhaustion of the fight, his focus narrowed until he was aware only of his thoughts of the past of Constance, and of his friends. To die for them was honorable, true. But to avenge them was more honorable still.

Dulaurier's face was a contorted mask of concentration, although the Gascon could see hints of worry showing through the cracks. The bandit was still bleeding heavily, and it was clearly affecting his concentration. Each side scored glancing blows to the other. D'Artagnan felt half a dozen cuts opened on his arms, his legs, his shoulder, and still he kept fighting with the strength of five men.

Suddenly, d'Artagnan saw an opening in his defenses. Moving with inhuman speed, he knocked the bandit's sword from him with a devastating blow, then forced him on his knees with the sword at his throat.

Dulaurier knelt on the ground with his hands raised, panting hard. He stared at his adversary with an eye of fire and a look of hatred impossible to describe.

"Do it," he challenged the musketeer, actually moving himself closer to the blade.

D'Artagnan numbly tightened his grip on the sword handle, prepared to deliver the final blow when he heard hoofbeats behind him.

* * *

As the duel was occurring, Aramis and Porthos were frantically trying to find an alternate exit when the hayloft came apart with a loud crack, landing in a fiery mass before them. They backed towards the center of the barn, where the flames were just beginning to lick at the edges. They stood in a circle, staring as their surroundings devolved into a burning hell.

"We can't get out, Athos," Porthos murmured to his friend. They stared mutely, numb within the flames with the knowledge that this would be their last battle.

"D'Artagnan needs us," Athos answered back.

"But how?" Aramis asked, gesturing to the flames, coughing on the acrid smoke beginning to steal their oxygen.

Athos looked towards the abandoned horse stalls and noticed that the last one on the left was still free of flames. Squinting through the heat, he noticed that the wall looked weak. The beam was already cracked and splintered, only needing another solid blow before collapsing. The back wall looked like it had been hastily mended, and only partly. Athos could see the dim glow of daylight through the cracks in the beams.

"This way!" he shouted, feeling his lungs burn with the smoke. Behind them, pieces of the burning ceiling came down upon the floor, threatening to crush them. All three of them threw themselves at the weak wall of the horse stall and went tumbling through it onto the wet grass outside. With difficulty, they managed to pull themselves away from the burning structure.

All three men laid on the ground, gasping for breath. Athos tried to get up and slumped back to the ground, falling face down. The wet grass felt good on his hot cheek, and his vision grayed out.

Athos fought desperately to stay conscious, and felt gentle hands turning him over on his back.

"Athos, no. Athos, stay awake," Porthos commanded, seeing his friend's eyes flutter closed and his breathing slow down.

Athos dimly felt a hand slapping his face, and tried to focus on the pain, bringing him back.

Aramis' face, smudged with soot and worried, slowly swam into view above him.

Athos accepted the hand pulling him upright and groaned as his head pounded.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, looking him full in the face.

"Yes," Athos answered, looking to Porthos, who nodded painfully.

After a few moments, they all hauled themselves to their feet, determined to see it through. The barn roof caved in with a snap, and Athos felt a chill run down his spine.

Aramis and Porthos looked similarly disquieted, then began moving as fast as they could around the burning building.

As the rounded the corner, they saw d'Artagnan with his adversary pinned on the ground by a blade at his neck. They looked up as a horse galloped past them.

* * *

Constance smelled the smoke before she could see the cottage. Spurring her horse on, she galloped towards the source of the fire. Seeing the billowing smoke from the fire, she stopped short in shock when she saw the barn ablaze. Outside it, she could see two figures fighting with frenetic energy. Suddenly, one of them disarmed the other, pushing his enemy to the ground. Constance watched with her heart in her throat, then felt a dizzying wave of relief when she recognized the standing figure as d'Artagnan. She rode up to them at a gallop and jumped off her horse, running to stand to the side of them.

D'Artagnan looked at her in numb disbelief, speechless. Her hair was tangled, her dress was dirty and there were leaves caught in her hair. She looked exhausted, having ridden all night, but very much alive.

"Constance," he whispered, not daring to believe his eyes. Dulaurier stared at her with wide eyes. His face paled and his lips trembled in spite of the control over himself.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called in a clear voice that rang with authority over the farmyard.

The younger musketeer turned instinctively towards the noise, heart almost stopping with the joy of seeing his friends alive. They were all covered in soot and looked slightly worse for the wear but were moving towards him with the easy loping grace he had come to recognize.

"It's not possible," Dulaurier said in a bewildered voice.

"And yet here we are," Athos said in a dry tone.

"D'Artagnan, you don't have to do this," Constance told him, stepping close to him. She could feel the fever rolling off his body in waves of heat, and his eyes were glassy.

"He killed you," he replied, voice trembling with uncertainty.

She smiled then, a beautiful unexpected thing that lit up her whole face. She put her hand gently on his arm, feeling the hot flesh underneath her cool hand.

"No, he didn't," she answered, insisting and gentle. "I am here, my love."

D'Artagnan looked at his enemy, who still stared at him with jeering hate, daring him to end it and fought with the emotions inside.

"He tried to kill all of you, without mercy. He took everything," he reasoned aloud, locking eyes with Dulaurier.

"He failed," Constance said softly, pressing herself close to the musketeer.

D'Artagnan stayed still for a moment. The scene froze in a tableau of life and death, reflected on the side of his sword and his adversary's eyes.

Slowly, he stepped away from his enemy and lowered his sword. Dulaurier couldn't help the heavy breath that escaped him, a mixture of relief and surprise that he was left alive.

The musketeers approached him, coming to stand by their friend's side. D'Artagnan looked at Athos with tears in his eyes and a look of old grief being released slowly. The older musketeer pulled him close and pressed him in a tight embrace, feeling the Gascon's quick breath on his neck. Athos released him and Aramis and Porthos did the same to their young friend, reassuring him of their substance.

D'Artagnan backed away and held Constance tightly. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt Constance in his strong grasp. Her touch was warm, her hair soft, her grip with a strength all its own.

The musketeers stood before Dulaurier, still kneeling on the ground. Athos looked at the bandit, feeling the hatred and vile loathing swirl in his heart.

He glanced to the hard faces of his friends, and they understood each other in that moment.

Pulling their pistols as one, they trained them on the criminal. Dulaurier looked up and grinned through his teeth savagely at their display.

"D'Artagnan may have forgiven you," Porthos said in a low voice. "But we can never forgive you for what you did to him."

"Make no mistake, Nicolas de Dulaurier: this is not justice, but revenge," Aramis said.

"I'll see you in hell," Athos finished, before they fired simultaneously.

The criminal crumpled backwards, three balls embedded in his heart within centimeters of each other. He was dead before he hit the ground, a look of twisted gratitude present on his face.

Porthos kicked the corpse savagely, then turned to the Gascon.

D'Artagnan pulled away and looked Constance in the face, sealing the impossible blue of her eyes and the shape of her mouth into his memory one last time.

Suddenly, he couldn't catch his breath and felt dizzy. Constance uttered a cry of shock and d'Artagnan staggered backwards, towards the ground. Athos caught him as he fell, and swore under his breath when he noticed the multiple wounds he sustained during his duel. D'Artagnan's breath came in slowly, and his face was ashen.

Aramis felt his forehead and gasped at the heat coming off his body. Lifting up his friend's shirt, he saw the angry half-healed wound, red with infection.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos shouted, bristling with worry.

The Gascon smiled up at his friend's weakly, then his eyes slipped closed.

Aramis put his ear to the Gascon's chest and listened. For one terrifying moment, he couldn't hear anything. Then his ears picked up a faint heartbeat.

"He's alive," Athos breathed, overcome with relief.


	7. Epilogue

_**A/N:**_ Hello! So first, I'd like to apologize for how late this is. I just finished reading The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas, which concludes the original series of books. Please pardon the expression, but holy goddamn _hell_ that one hurt! If you think the BBC series rips out your heart and stomps on it, read through the books. It was a while before I could think about the series again, and trying to shift back into that mindset after the books is a little difficult.

That being said, they were fantastic and I love that I was able to get so much exposure to the characters in their original forms. Anyways.

Here is the epilogue to my story, short and sweet. As always, reviews are most definitely welcome. I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read, favorite, follow, and review on this fic. The reviews I've gotten are always really sweet and, well. They make me happy :). Without the continued encouragement, this one would've taken a heck of a lot longer, and might not have even been finished. My first full-lenth fic for this fandom, and I'm fairly pleased with how it turned out.

Hope the epilogue continues to delight, and happy holidays everyone!

Namaste.

* * *

It was two full days and half through the morning of a third before d'Artagnan's eyes finally fluttered open. The first thing his uncomprehending gaze saw were his brothers peering at him anxiously from around the sides of his bed. The second thing was Constance, tears of unshed joy and relief shining in her expressive eyes.

D'Artagnan stared at her numbly, trying to sort out the jumbled memories spinning in his mind. Slowly it slid into place, and Aramis saw the change in his face.

"Are you alright now?" Aramis asked, looking into his eyes.

"Yes," the Gascon answered, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from his love.

"Are you?" he asked suddenly, taking note of how terrible they looked. "Wasn't there a fire? You all look worse for the wear."

Porthos snorted, and even Athos smirked.

"If we only had a mirror, you never would have made that statement, lad," Porthos said cheerfully, fighting a wry grin.

"We're all fine," Aramis said, rolling his eyes at his comrades' antics. "It's you which had us worried."

"We were afraid you wouldn't wake up," Athos said, his eyes conveying the tumult of emotions his flat voice masked.

D'Artagnan looked up, then shied away from the former Comte's gaze.

Constance, feeling uneasy with the growing tension in the room, stepped towards the door.

"I'll be back with some food," she declared before scurrying away.

Silence reigned over the room as the door closed.

"Never again," Athos said, tone ringing with finality.

"Athos—" d'Artagnan began.

"He's right, pup," Porthos broke in. "I don't think you understand just how close you were to not waking up. Aramis says that even a few more hours with your wound bein' infected like that could've done you in."

The youngest musketeer looked to the medic, who smiled weakly at him.

"I thought it was already too late, honestly," he admitted, running a tired hand through his hair.

The musketeers breathed out a weary sigh. They all looked wrecked from staying up nearly all the time with their friend, worried that the next breath might be the last.

D'Artagnan looked at them all with concern, then looked down in guilt.

"I'm sorry. I—thank you," he began haltingly, picking up pace as he spoke.

"It felt like I was gone half the time, after she fell. Everything, even the pain, started fading into the background. I would lay awake and stare at the stars, thinking of her. When I would finally blink and come back, hours had passed. The only time I felt truly grounded, like I still belonged to this world, was with all of you. Thank you, for not leaving me." The last words were a whisper, spoken to his bedcovers.

"It's unforgivingly awful to have hurt you, and I can't apologize enough for that." A shadowy look of regret passed over d'Artagnan's eyes and settled on his shoulders, making him slump in defeat.

The room was silent, save for the quiet breathing of the soldiers. A solitary tear of regret and immeasurable sorrow fell from d'Artagnan's eye and fell onto the blanket.

Athos stepped forward and sat down on the bed, making the Gascon's teary gaze meet his own.

Not saying anything, he pulled his friend close, gently but firmly. D'Artagnan's shoulders shook with wordless sobs as he tightened his grip on his brother, lamenting all that had he had been so close to losing, the misery they had all endured, the bond of sacrifice between himself and his friend intermingled with the newfound grief he shared with the eldest musketeer.

Finally, his tears stopped, and Athos helped him stand up at the Gascon's insistence. The other musketeers joined them in a circle, standing close with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders wordlessly.

The door burst open and Constance swept inside, carrying a heavy tray laden with food and drink. She stopped suddenly, looking at the scene. Her eyes widened and she flushed with embarrassment as she hastily tried to retreat to the door when d'Artagnan broke away from the embrace of his friends with an easy laugh free of any pain or grief.

"It's alright, Constance. Thank you, for bringing this to us, I think we're all pretty hungry," the Gascon said.

"You could say that," Porthos muttered, who was already eyeing the roasted ham with satisfaction.

As the others descended on the food, Constance stepped towards her lover, looking him up and down. He pulled her close, and she folded into his embrace.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly, her voice slightly muffled by his shirt.

She sensed his smile and felt him nod against the top of her head.

"I will be," he said, looking down at her with undying love and unbounded joy.

"Let's eat," he added, turning towards the table, surrounded by friends.

* * *

A few weeks later, everything had returned slowly to normalcy. D'Artagnan was now back to nearly his previous strength. He could ride farther every day, and had reclaimed his prowess with a sword. Bonacieux had also, annoyingly, returned to Paris. D'Artagnan and Constance had tacitly agreed to keep the events hidden, and the merchant remained oblivious to everything.

One day, d'Artagnan was walking in the market with his brothers by his side, enjoying some leave time before their next shift at the garrison. A large figure lurked in the shadows behind one of the stands, taking care to stay out of sight. Satisfied, he slipped into one of the rundown buildings and pushed his way past some debris designed to make it look uninhabited.

His footsteps crunched on dead leaves that were strewn on the stone floor. The sounds of the marketplace died away to a quiet murmur, leaving the sunshine with it. The last surviving bandit from Dulaurier's group climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs to the top of the building. The memories swirled in his head, although he tried to block them out.

He heard the musketeers step in, completely unaware that he had remained tucked into the outside wall of the barn itself. When they were all past the threshold, it had been too easy to simply slam the door shut, bar it with a large wooden plank and run. The insane bandit had told him to leave the farm, to let him fight the musketeers alone. Dulaurier had instructed the henchman to travel to Paris, to keep an eye out for the soldiers, and to report back to their leader, the one who had orchestrated the bandit attack in the first place.

Finding himself at the top of the landing, he let himself in. The wood whined lowly under his feet, and he briefly thought that he would fall through the floorboards the next time he came up here. The room was bare, except for a chair that faced a decrepit mantle. Standing at the window was a tall, dark man. The stranger didn't move when the door quietly shut, and didn't turn as the last bandit stepped into the weakly candlelit room. Not even the outside sunshine could brighten the room through the boards over the window through which the mysterious figure peered.

"The musketeers killed Dulaurier, Jules, Luc. Dulaurier killed Tomas. I'm the only one left. Before he died, Dulaurier sent me here, to tell you what had happened. So that you'd know." The large bandit, the one who had held Constance, shuffled his feet awkwardly, wishing he were anywhere else.

"And tell me, Jacques, why did you listen to him?" the stranger asked quietly, in a rich, smooth voice.

"Well, because he was my leader," Jacques said, clearly confused.

"Dulaurier was valuable, and courageous," the man continued, still looking out the window.

"But reckless. Incredibly foolish. Organizing a thieving ring this way is a large-scale operation, and every time your squad went out I had to wonder…" his voice trailed off, seeming to lose interest.

"We brought you back the best things," Jacques said, attempting to control the anger in his voice.

"We were the best squad you had, and now it's only me. They've killed everyone else."

The man suddenly turned, although his face remained bathed in shadow, not near enough to the light. He kept his head held at an odd angle, and Jacques couldn't help but swallow uneasily.

"I saw what was left of Luc and Jules. Who was the musketeer who killed them?" he asked, voice still soft.

"They call him d'Artagnan," the henchman answered roughly, trying not to show his fear.

The man chuckled softly, the sinister sound making the hair on Jacques' neck stand up and grit his teeth.

"D'Artagnan," he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue.

"I can join another squad," Jacque said suddenly. "I can still be useful to you."

"It's not about the jewels we steal, you imbecile," the man answered harshly, tone suddenly dangerous and sharp.

"The valuables you find are secondary. They are merely a tool we use to achieve our goals. Our plan is nearly ready to be set into motion. All we need is a little more time."

Jacques bowed and prepared to leave the room.

"Which one is him?" the leader asked, looking through the window again.

"He's standing in the middle of the three, the young one dressed in brown leathers," Jacques replied.

"D'Artagnan," the man said again, smiling slightly as he repeated the name. "I think it's time I paid him and the others a visit."

* * *

END

* * *

 _ **Post A/N:**_ So. I left some room for a possible sequel (?). If anyone is interested, let me know and I'll try to get it going. Otherwise, thanks again for reading. You're all awesome.


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